Deuterocanonical: Great Desire ::Archived::
by Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant
Summary: James McCloud has long been in exile, separated from the only woman he has ever loved in his ageless, miserable life by both Fate and cruel circumstance. But one day, there comes something which changes, not only him, but his entire world forever. (Novella—ForAdam) Warning: MAture content
1. Dedication

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**Disclaimer**:******_This is not your typical Star Fox story. Please bear this in mind when reading._**

In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I dedicate this work to all who have suffered, who is suffering, and who will suffer. Most especially in the memory of Adam Smith is this dedicated. And, as always, to the Eternal Glory of God. Amen and Amen.

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**Dedication**

Early in 2014, May 24th, a young man named Adam Smith, 19, took his own life because of Internet trolls on YouTube and FanFiction.

He had written stories under the name "Galaxystar" in the My Little Pony fandom before he was "struck off" the site over false claims of plagiarism. He had learning disabilities, speech and memory problems, was behind his social peers by a year, and therefore "_very dependent on his computer and the internet, in particular YouTube, for social communication and enjoyment but sadly he would then be susceptible to judgment by people who never met him, did not know him and were not aware of the problems he had during his formative years_."

He took it all very hard. Days before he committed suicide, he posted a five-minute video to apologize to those online trolls: "_I just want to say I'm sorry. I just like doing fanfics. I'm sorry that my voice is not really brilliant. I know I did a terrible job but I just want to make it up to you all. I'm sorry. If there's any way I can make it up to you all. Please. I just don't want a bad reputation._" Their predictable and heartless reaction drove him to despair, and then there was no turning back. He was last seen walking onto a railroad track, where a two-carriage train hit him not too long after.

A campaign has/d been started in Facebook writing groups, with the hashtag #ForAdam, in response to this. This fic, written with no knowledge of this saddening incident until just before Christmas Eve, is therefore in his memory. Be warned of graphic content, for it will not be pretty, as his was not. My own experience with online trolls throughout 2014 plays a role in this as well.

#ForAdam

(Sources:_ www-dot-mirror-dot-co-dot-uk-slash-news-slash-uk-news-slash-im-sorry-teens-heartbreaking-final-4826932_—  
_www-dot-dailymail-dot-co-dot-uk-slash-news-slash-article-2877190-slash-Teenage-Little-Pony-fan-posted-heartbreaking-YouTube-video-APOLOGISING-internet-trolls-tormented-days-threw-train_)

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_For a Person under Affliction._

**O** Merciful God, and heavenly Father, who hast taught us in thy holy Word that thou dost not willingly afflict or grieve the children of men; Look with pity, we beseech thee, upon the sorrows of thy _servant_ for whom our prayers are offered. Remember _him_, O Lord, in mercy; endue _his_ soul with patience; comfort _him_ with a sense of thy goodness; lift up thy countenance upon_ him_, and give _him_ peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord. _Amen_.

(The Book of Common Prayer, 1928.)

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	2. Scene One—Introduction

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**_Great Desire_**

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_**Veni, Veni Emmanuel**_—**Mannheim Steamroller**—(YouTube, AmazonMP3, Google Play, iTunes)

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**Date:** 6 _or _5 B.C. (_Before Christ_)/25,500,000 BLW—approximate—(_Before the Lylat Wars_)  
**Time:** Near Midnight  
**Location:** Corneria, northern latitudes

**_"Any one thinking of the Holy Child as born in December would mean by it exactly what we mean by it; that Christ is not merely a summer sun of the prosperous but a winter fire for the unfortunate."_**

James McCloud watched the skies from his seat on the cliff. Below the sounds of the Crystal Sea's ebbing tides came distantly to his ears… yet his mind wandered, and he heard or saw nothing else. Neither did he feel the cold wind moving silently through his body, the distant vestigial van of a Southern onslaught currently raging across the water.

A grand star-spangled panorama filled the night sky before him, unobscured by clouds, mountains, or even the Twin Moons, Zoness and Aquas; tonight both were on the opposite side in the middle of a double-eclipse. Now, cleared of any distractions, the skies were lit up. One half was covered by a great golden-red nebulæ, looking like the long, slender fingers of an outstretched hand; the other was occupied by thousands upon millions of stars arranged in a broad ribbon of multicolored brilliance—only the Red Star outshone them all, a bright dot of light within the celestial tapestry; the next brightest was the cerulean jovian planet Tyana. In the darker regions of space, above and below the ribbon, were the other planets, seen only as isolated points of light nearly drowned out by the rest of the stars. Beneath all of this, right where it touched the horizon, lay the vast Crystal Sea, one of three others, mirroring the splendor back into the sky. Ordinarily, strong, hurricane-like winds blew across the surface, distorting the starry reflections and turning it into a dark blue tempest—but tonight the myriad, capricious movements of the weather left it alone; not even the slight breeze disturbed it. If only the stormy fronts of his mind would do the same.

A tear trickled down his face, etching its way through his orange facial-fur. It hung poised to drop from his chin—then fell into his lap. Another followed, passing through a mark carved onto his flesh as with a fire-brand, and went the same way. Shaped as a five-pointed star enclosed within a circle, colored gold, no more than four centimeters wide, that mark was his sign of banishment. James shook his head as more started coming down, blinking away the tears. He was not about to break down, no matter how painful the memories now flooding into his head were.

On this day, ten Cornerian winters ago, he had once been part of the illustrious Krazoan Order, an ancient organization devoted (in theory) to the protection of the Lylatian solar system and her inhabitants, the giver of law and justice to those underneath them. Led by the eight Krazoa "gods", siblings in both blood and spirit, and countless others lower than they, the Order served as both ecclesiastical leader and secular governor to the common people—kings, princes, and even emperors bowed to their will; there was no land or planet in the Lylat (or beyond the system, out into the wider Galactic Core) that their influence did not touch, if not outright control. James himself had been—still was—one of those "gods", equal in power, majesty and authority (among countless other abilities). His word, along with theirs, had been law.

Once.

Then, because of a most grievous offense against the Order's code of laws (inaccurately called a "sin"; only offenses against the Father truly counted as such), he had been formally stripped of his rank, his powers, and bound to live permanently in the vulpine body he'd chosen to use among men. All Krazoa had a body of sorts, each one unique to the various planets they supervised, to be changed or discarded at will—their natural form was something less… substantial. To be "bound" was a fate worse than death for a Krazoa, even worse than the Father's curse.

That was, of course, the "formal" punishment. In itself the "binding" was a hard thing to bear… but nothing like what had come after. That last was a rare sentence indeed; only once or twice had the Krazoa done this, and the poor fools Sentenced had died immediately after.

He sighed, bowing his head away from the stars. _It was inevitable that it would happen_, he told himself. _It _had_ been going on for a long time—so long it was foolish not to turn a blind eye to it any longer. They weren't fools._ Such simple and poor consolation. Time and again he had assured himself that it was indeed inevitable. Or had it?

_Could I have been more discreet?_ he wondered. Surely it was possible—he once had the authority to insure it would remain hidden even from his brothers; that or control his temperament. But no, not any more. Passion had overruled his logical and rational mind one too many times, and the others soon heard of it.

He could still hear the gavel's thud like a tombstone rolling into place, echoing in the chambers of his mind—could sense the gaze of his Krazoan peers pinning him to where he stood like flaming spears incarnate; could feel the awful _pain_ of his innate powers being ripped out from his very spirit in the same instant, abilities once second nature being shut off like a sluice cutting water-flow, mental faculties unique to his kind closing like flowers for lack of sunlight; could feel the mark being burned onto his flesh, upon both cheeks and forehead—as the Sentence was pronounced.

_"From this moment on, you are hereby banished from every realm and civilization under the Order's protection,"_ came the intonation of the judge in the midst of (even after all this time) the terrible pain. _"May none give you comfort, succor or aid; may none take you into their home; may none welcome you as visitor or friend. For now, until evermore, your Kurse will mark you as Outcast and brigand."_

The final bang of the gavel came forth—_"Thus we have spoken"_—and it was now irrevocable.

Immediately afterward—far too soon after—he was driven forth from the city, first by the soldiers with stinging electro-whips and spear jabs, and then with stones and refuse by the populace. He fled into the wild, wounded and humiliated, and went far away, as far as he could, even to the point of leaving the planet Sauria. It had taken time for the Kurse to cool, for its vivid crimson flame to fade, but while it remained he kept running. He was no longer welcome because of it. Whomever saw his mark would be obligated to shun him, even if they were friends or family, and refuse him both shelter and food; even kill him, if he wasn't careful, for people like him were legally considered to be criminals.

Such were the lives of the Kursed—it touched all alike, from the lowly to even the highest. Even a Krazoa. Most withdrew into the lonely life of hermits, wanderers forever, as penance for their crime; others, unable to accept it, often committed suicide or worse. The only way that this punishment could be reversed was if the one Kursed petitioned—and if the Order decided, by a majority vote—to rescind their decree; and that almost never happened.

Forgiveness was curiously absent from the Order's psyche.

The sounds of snuffling and chewing from his little herd of twenty or so Nerfs, bovine creatures of capricious temperament, came to his ears along with the sea, drawing him out of his little world and back to reality. He looked back briefly, checking them for signs of discontent. None showed—they sedately continued eating, their four-horned heads bowed to the ground ripping up grass and other plants as they always did.

Simple animals, with hardly a care in the world, who never thought to look beyond the man who herded them. He couldn't help but crack a slight smile as he looked at them. _Stupid, plain creatures,_ he thought ironically. Even they were a sign of how low he had sunk; only persons of low class would take responsibility of them, smelly and dangerous as they were. _They don't care of what I am, that I am a Kursed being,_ he thought morosely. _Why should they? They are but animals, creatures without will or spirit as we. They would accept food and shelter from a hardened, heartless criminal and be none the worse for it._

He sighed. _Why am I even dwelling on this? By the Father, why won't I leave it alone…?_

He turned and covered his face, trying to shut it away—but it was too late. She had been so alone, so helpless and afraid, that he couldn't keep it out. Her pain was as much as his—ironically, she was both the catalyst of his punishment and the author of it. It would be cruel to leave her alone, even in memory, despite what had happened to him. No matter what the Order thought of such people he would not, could not, do something like that.

"Vixy," he whispered in the night.

There, he had said her name. With its coming he could remember (with frightening clarity) how she looked—those bewitching green eyes of hers, her finely-shaped hands and elegant tail… and her shaking, fragile body. How she shivered and shook that one fateful night, so long ago; how cold and vulnerable she was. Even the wraps she had used to vainly keep out the bitter wind could not conceal that she was on the threshold of death—and neither could they conceal the crippling wounds emblazoned upon her back.

James covered his face slowly. His hand was cold—like hers…

How long had he forced himself to forget her?

"No…" he whispered underneath the splendor of the heavens. "Why have I forgotten her? By the Father, why…?" More memories came back to him like trickling water changing to a flood, moving inexorably to full consciousness…

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	3. Scene Two—Remembrance

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_He hurried to the side-door, a small five-pointed, circled star carved into its wooden surface, ignoring startled looks from the brothers and novices alike as he went by (never before had they seen one of the Krazoa "gods" hurry; or with such a look of consternation), and unlocked it with a touch of his mind._

_"Lord," one ventured cautiously, "what are y—?"_

_"Get blankets, plenty of them, something hot to drink, then get out of my way," he commanded imperiously, wrenching the door open. A blast of cold air whipped in his face, stinging his eyes. He ignored the pain, and went outside as the brothers clustering around him disappeared to carry out his orders. No doubt they thought he'd lost his mind—again. He had garnered a reputation in the Order as being unorthodox, almost to the point of heresy. Not that he cared—he was a "god", and none would dare accuse him._

_Pitch black darkness met his gaze, broken by the swirling snow of a mighty snowstorm and various pinpoints of light from the city. No matter. He waved a hand, channeling some of his innate energy to create light. A glowing orb grew in his palm and, completed, flew over the snow-bound square, searching—then hovered over a certain area, just underneath a dark, bare tree, penetrating even the tempestuous winds flinging sleet and ice everywhere. James' eyes narrowed, and started pushing his way through the thick snow. Unbidden his powers lent their aid and soon his way was unhindered as the snow melted quickly. Even the storm raging over the Krazoan capital seemed to lessen here as he went on._

_He reached the place illuminated by the orb, sank to his knees, and started shoveling away at the mound. The ice cracked and melted at the touch of his hands; not once were they injured—even the minute flakes landing on him by the hundreds disappeared, though he had to contend with water trickling down his neck (even magic had its limits). It was of no matter; not now. After a few minutes his hand touched something stiff, and cold. His pace grew more frantic. At last he uncovered a frozen body, dark against the blue-white ground and the paler colors of his Magelight._

Oh no…

_"Please don't die…" he growled, blue eyes flashing as he tucked one arm underneath her stiff torso, and the other 'round her head. Lifting the vixen up out of her snowy tomb, he pressed an ear against her chest—and heard a faint pulsation of life, weak but there. He exhaled, relieved. "Stay with me," he whispered to the body, her mental signature so weak he could hardly feel it beating against his own, stronger mind. "I'll get you inside."_

_He pulled his head away and hurriedly started turning about, to go back the way he—_

_"Lord, lord, here, let us take her—" came a call almost simultaneous with his action. Straightaway several figures surrounded him, shielding James' body from the wind. With much enthusiasm (or perhaps because of the raging storm) many took hold of the frail body he carried and bustled off with her, moving with much haste back to the warm Temple. He too was herded back inside amid the whirling snow._

_Once the door was closed, however, he took charge again, and quickly relieved the three brothers carrying the vixen. Then without a backward glance at his helpers, he swept away to his own chambers. After a few moments of confusion the rest of them, who'd arrived with the things he requested, followed after, almost straining their muscles as they struggled to keep pace with their leader._

_James banged through the entrance to his sumptuous chambers several levels above (in fact, located in the topmost tower of the Temple), and went over to the nearest soft surface—a small, red couch—and placed the vixen down upon it as gently as he could (something most unusual for a Krazoa, the brothers behind him noted, but hardly surprising), then snatched as many blankets as he could carry to lay over her. The others milled around uncertainly until he, with a jerk of his head, dismissed them. One laid down a steaming goblet on a nearby table—which was grabbed as soon as it left the fox's hand—before he departed. The door closed with a click._

_Silence descended in the Krazoa's chamber._

_James took a deep breath, inhaling unconsciously the spicy drink he held, and knelt before the couch, heedless of his own discomfort. He would attend to that later. He waved his hand slowly over her inert form in a huge arc. A golden-blue glow suffused the palm, then a stream of tiny stars floated down from it to rest upon—and be absorbed into—her body. Soon the frozen look was fast leaving her, the icy fur melting along with the softening flesh together; and enough color returned to her features for James to tilt her head forward slightly and place her lips to the goblet._

_Her green eyes flickered open as the warming fluid went down, and James exhaled, relieved that no lasting harm had afflicted her._

_"Y—You c—came…?"_

_"Shhh," he hushed her, "easy now. Drink this." He tucked his arm underneath her head and tilted it further. "It'll warm you faster."_

_"Th—Thank you," came Vixy's weakened voice after a few sips. Her eyes, bright orbs against the semi-darkness of the chamber, seemed to reassure him that all was well. "I th—thought I—I would die…"_

_"That is no longer a concern, love," James said gently, moving the goblet's stem upwards. The warm liquid, whatever it was, rapidly disappeared. "Now rest." he admonished, using his other hand to continue warming her. More stars floated downwards._

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This was not the first time he had met with Vixy. In fact he could hardly remember when exactly he did meet her, it had been going on for such a long time; but what did that matter, anyhow? It was only among one of many—and the last he could remember without shivering like her. Shortly afterward came his arrest and eventual branding as one of the Kursed.

But the few memories he _did_ have of her were more than enough to keep his depression at bay—or did. They _had_ been far more vivid than even his banishment. But Time, with her usual insensitive ways, had deadened them; was deadening them still—the reason why he had not thought of her in years. It was too painful. Joy had a way of rapidly slipping through one's fingers, leaving only fear, anger and sadness behind them; it was—

Something butted James in the back. Hard.

He jumped to his feet in a moment and whirled to face whomever had disturbed his scattered thoughts—instinctive reflexes honed by incessant wanderings coming to the fore—and paused, confused. One of the Nerfs stood quizzically before him, shaggy head cocked to one side. Its dark eyes glinted in the starlight. No doubt it was curious why its herder sat here away from the rest of the herd, alone and friendless. Or maybe it needed the touch of its master. Who would know?

James sighed, the swift surge of adrenaline leaving him as quickly as it came, and reached out to pat it on the head. It moved forward and wuffled into his chest. No doubt it sensed he was sad with that unusual propensity animals had for empathy.

"Hello, friend," he said, giving it a vigorous scratching. "You need company?" In answer, the Nerf butted him again, softly this time. Unbidden there came a smile to James' face. He knelt down until he stood eye to eye with it and headbutted back affectionately; it pushed into him again with just enough force to match. James started laughing, and sat back, saying, "I give up, I give u—yeech!" A long slimy tongue snaked out of a voluminous mouth and gave the ex-Krazoa one huge, slimy licking. James continued chuckling, fending off the tongue and wiping the slobber off simultaneously as he struggled back to his feet. "Get off, you overgrown, furry mound—please!"

No matter how low or alone he felt, there was always something to relieve and lift his spirits up, and usually it was one of the herd—like now. Sometimes he would talk to the Nerfs, chatting about his past life or whatever happened to strike him at the moment. They seemed to understand him. Many would call him insane for doing so—but then, wasn't he already? Why would they care anyway? These were company enough, and he was grateful all the same.

A cold breath of air swept over him, making the fur on his neck rise, when he stood. He shivered in response, tail fluffing behind him._ Time to go home._ He'd spent too much time out here already, and should be home and asleep—undoubtedly the cause of why he dwelt on the past. Remarkably, notwithstanding, none of the Nerfs appeared tired, no need for sleep—or else they had that uncanny ability to snatch moments of rest every now and then, like the monstrous four-eyed, feline predators, called Nexu, of Fortuna's northern climates did. Whatever was the case, he was silently thankful to the Father he never had to wake them up or deal with the species' notorious tempers. The last very nearly seemed a blessing in disguise, for Nerfs were never known to be mild like his.

James patted the beast on its head affectionately, and, whistling a short four-note call, started to walk away from the cliff-side, calling the Nerf herd to follow. The one behind trotted after, holding its woolly head high.

With all of the rest soon behind, James led them over the rolling hills to the mountains far away from the Crystal Sea, searching for the pass that would lead them back to the village. There, at least, no one knew who or what the Krazoan Order were, or regarded their edicts. It was too far north here on Corneria, far from most centers of civilization, isolated as it were upon its little mountainous peninsula, the bay surrounding kept warm by a wide band of flowing water from the southern regions. Here the Order's power of banishment and humiliation had no effect, or should. It still lingered in his mind, reminded constantly by the marks and the occasional strange looks he got… He shook his head—best not to dwell on it.

Instead, his thoughts drifted back to Vixy. Because of that Nerf's comforting touch, he no longer had that stormy pall over his thoughts; he could dwell on it with a smile, even. Here, at least, he could avoid the inevitable for a little longer…

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_"You shouldn't have gone out like that. Not even I am worth it, James."_

_"Of course you are worth it, love—only an idiot wouldn't do what I did."_

_"But, James, your bre—"_

_"They are fools and and imbeciles! Damn their divers rules and laws to the Outer Darkness—why set aside something as sublime as compassion all because of… Gah! I don't understand their contrary and perverse ways! The Krazoa are supposed to _protect_ the people, not enforce oppressive laws to destroy their very spirits!"_

_Vixy's eyes followed James' agitated movements as he paced back and forth, ranting as he had been for the past hour or two against his own Order. She laid wrapped up in countless blankets—many of them costly carpets of intricate design and color (with the ever-present pentacle upon them), something which James had overlooked in his haste to warm her up—and ensconced within the couch. The goblet sat forgotten beside her, with yet another full serving of that spicy drink thanks to his constant and proliferate use of magic. All signs of frostbite had left her, and the great gashes on her back had been healed. To all appearances she was quite healthy and did not look like for an instant someone who had lain on Death's door mere hours ago. _

_All of this, of course, was because of her slavishly devoted (and overprotective) "husband". Officially, she was a no-body, not even a mistress, being a mere body-slave of the lowest sort of servants and "bound" by law to serve her master until she dropped dead in whatever capacity he needed or (as was often the case) wanted. James, of course, had bent rules before, and something like this was trivial in comparison; in fact her life was made all the better for it… slightly. But, again, of course, no one recognized it. Not even his Krazoan kin knew this "marriage" (let alone her!) existed._

_At times she had asked him what it was about her that interested him, he being of the highest and she below the lowest—but she knew the answer regardless of how many times asked. No one had the right to live as she did, as James thought, that awareness being one of many admirable traits and properties he claimed the Krazoa all possessed. She disbelieved that for all except him. Compassion, mercy, kindness and love was what set him apart from the rest of his kindred, what always explained his actions, even the most foolish of them._

_Like this one._

_"James," she began again when he paused for breath, "you should not have done what you did—no, don't interrupt me," she reproached him, silencing him with her hand, as he turned to protest. "You could've helped me from afar, protected and healed me with that damned magic of yours, _then_ you could have come when it was safe; or magicked yourself to me _without_ making such a big fuss like you did." Her eyes then narrowed. "But no, you had to let that overlarge head of yours get in the way and let everyone know about it! Any moment now the Order might be coming for you. Why didn't you use the common sense the Father gave to each of us? Why?!"_

_He waited patiently for her to finish, accepting her rebuke under that rosy glow of love. She was a strong woman, remarkably so given her low station, firm of opinion and stubborn of will, but even that was usually not enough to restrain him. He would listen to her, yes, then go and do his own thing. Sometimes he heeded her; most of the time, did not. This was one of the latter times._

_"Would you rather that I let you die?" he asked. "You were dying, buried underneath the snow with those wounds, and how was I supposed to know where you were? You couldn't move, let alone go home. I did what I could. Besides," he added suggestively, "why did you come as far as you did? Clearly you expected me to do something…"_

_She merely shook her head. "You idiot," she complained, muttering under her breath as he crossed the room to sit beside her. "Never one to use even your gifts, always needing me to tell you what to do."_

_"Well, I am listening to you now," he said, sitting down and leaned over to kiss her forehead. She accepted it, closing her eyes as he did. "Order me around, do it, and I'll obey." he said when he pulled away._

_"You foolish joker," she murmured, leaning against him. "Like you ever will do such a thing." James smiled in reply._

_It was one of things which attracted him to Vixy, that will of hers, nearly a match for his impulsiveness—a balancing of the marital scales, by the Father's loving providence. It served to bind them together more tightly than the fibers of a rope, no matter how often their opposing personalities clashed; and even though he was a Krazoa and she a mortal that difference seldom mattered. Tonight however their usual relationship dynamics were subdued, even silenced, almost._

_"What happened to you?" he asked, changing the subject. The wounds on her back were now a memory, but when he'd seen them they looked deadly. It had been a wonder she had managed to crawl as far as the square outside, let alone move. The cold had helped in numbing the pain, though, he reflected, putting his arm 'round Vixy and pulling her close protectively._

_He suspected he knew what it was, even before she opened her mouth—and his guess was confirmed a moment later._

_"M—M—Master was… displeased," she began hesitantly, remembering as much as she could as she instinctively snuggled closer to him. "He wanted me—oh, James, please do not hurt him," she pleaded, her tone changing, "he is not worth it, please; don't get in trouble on my behalf." She looked up at him, smiling shyly, trying to get him into a better temper._

_"I will be the judge of that, my dear," the Krazoa replied tonelessly. "Now go on." He knew of who she spoke of, without needing preamble. That particular man had a rock for a head, the lusts of an amorous horse and the arrogance of the Krazoa. For all that he was highborn he was as cruel as the ancient barbarians of long ago, long before the Order was established among the Lylat and civilization was brought to men. If he was the source of her wounds, there would be a reckoning—at last._

How many times do I have to keep telling him?_ he wondered silently. Time and again things like this happened… it was inconceivable that he could keep ignoring him like this! _That will change_, he vowed. _Soon, or never_._

_Vixy's expression changed into one of curiosity, with shades of caution mixed in, then went on. "I don't know why he wanted—wanted that, but you know him, moody, unpredictable…"_

_"Yes, yes, you've told me time and again." He rebuffed any and all attempts to be sidetracked, his grip tightening imperceptibly around her body. "__What did he do that caused you to be whipped?"_

_"I refused to… to… _service_ him!" she spat out suddenly, no longer able to hold it back. "I refused, again, when he pressed me, reminding him of what you sai—"_

_"And he beat you for that, right?" he interrupted sharply. She nodded abruptly, still shaken; over either the memory or his possible reaction, he did not know. Already he could feel anger growing within. _I warned him…!

_"He told me to shut up and do what he wanted," Vixy was saying, fury pouring out from her like a tidal wave, "and I was having none of that—I… I pushed him away; I clawed him when he tried to f—force—! He c—called for a… a whip, say—saying that I would re—re—reconsider after some… some "pain", wh—when I… I continued… continued to resist." She paused, shivering, and closed her eyes, undoubtedly trying to squelch the most painful parts of that memory. "It was… terrible…" she whispered, "almost like the Darkness…"_

_James tensed in sympathy, holding her close to him. He rested his chin atop her head, letting her know he was there even in torment. As she shook in remembrance of blows both physical and sexual, through their psychic connection she shared to him the rest in feelings, emotions and unspoken thoughts what she couldn't do in words, and he began to shake; but in suppressed rage that nonetheless grew greater the more he tried to keep it hidden. How dare that this man force his wife to do what he, James, had expressly forbidden him to do—and then attack her for rebellion and beat her into submission… like… like an animal! Either he had forgotten yet again (a foolish mistake) or he figured a Krazoa was of no threat…_

_"James… James!"_

_He came out of his mind and back to reality, dispelling a sudden red cloud which covered his eyes, at her call. She had moved away from him, looking frightened. Perhaps she felt what was going through his mind inadvertently? He quickly reassured her through their bond, but this time it had no effect._

_"Please," she said, taking up his hand with both of hers and clutched at it, "do not—please, listen to me!—do _not_ go after him! I will not have you punished by your brothers just because of me." Her eyes shimmered with tears. "Please, let it go. Keep me here—you've done it before—don't send me back to him, do anything else; but do _not_ hurt him! Where would I be if you were forced to send me away—?"_

_"I will do what I can, Vixy," he interrupted, smiling at her despite his internal rage, lying through his teeth. "I will do what I can."_

_She smiled back, looking relieved. "Thank you, James."_

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	4. Scene Three—Vrurkii

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_**Do You Hear What I Hear?**_—**Ed Ames ****_or_**** Orla Fallon**—(YouTube, Spotify, iTunes, Google Play, AmazonMP3)

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_"Thank you, James."_

Those words echoed in his mind, heralding what was to come. He shoved it back, shaking. He had not expected to remember it with that much emotion. The anger awoke related memories, ones he had tried so hard to forget… no, not now. He had not spent all these years shutting them away only to come now. Had he not just fought down depression only for it to come back in force? Certainly not!

Fortunately he had something to distract him.

Mountain paths were treacherous places, twisty and crooked, requiring every ounce of attention he had. One moment it was straight and true; the next took a sharp turn either to the right or left, oftentimes doubling backwards upon itself like a certain kind of Titanian desert-serpent called the sidewinder. At times he idly thought he might meet himself on one these turns, leading an identical herd of sleepy-looking animals. Even now, after so many years of traveling these paths, that thought entered his head; and when he wasn't watching his herd he scanned snow-covered rocks for a trace of his duplicate.

Stretching high above him the vast Vrurkii Ranges—named for an ancient civilization which had once covered the lowlands surrounding these mountains, destroyed by the Krazoan Order for some long ago offense, possibly a rebellion—were beautiful at this time of night, with nothing to cover the skies about them. With seven major peaks piercing the air—each capped with a pristine cover of snow and girded about the metaphorical waist with dark forests still clothed in green—together with the golden red nebula (called the Red Hand) and the vast band of light known as the Sparkling Path filling a sky usually dominated by the Twins, it was an awe-inspiring sight.

With time, of course, he had grown used to it until it no longer struck him as truly amazing. Nothing like this were down in the lower latitudes (or even on the other planets), that was true; they had their own brand of spatial wonders, such as the Seventeen Constellations, the Gold-and-Silver Scales and the awesome Cross of Fire, the latter being formed out of fourteen crimson stars; the most notable. But nothing compared to the Hand and the Path. The locals were proud of showing these off to impressionable visitors, taking them outside at night and watching with suppressed hilarity at their expressions. James took a more pragmatic approach to the heavens, contemplating them with all the inquisitiveness of an astronomer and philosopher. The Krazoa had always remembered where they had come from, that they had been a part of these heavens long ago, no matter their decadence. That awareness had not changed with his exile.

Tonight, however, his gaze was earthward, keeping an ever present eye out for precipices and sudden drops in the path. An unwary Nerf might accidentally take a wrong step, for all of that species' sure feet, and fall to its death; or get lodged in a tight crack and force him to expose the rest to danger while he went down to retrieve it. Plus there was that chilling breeze, which grew in strength, as it followed him through the pass. These kinds of winds were strange creatures, even in places where they shouldn't be blowing—animals and men had been known to be thrown off the paths by them.

Fortunately the ambient light—and his knowledge of the paths and his herd's inclination to follow his every move, spoken or otherwise—kept the mountainsides safely illuminated, the pathways clearly defined. On most nights the Twins' light did that, but this was just as good, if a little less brighter than moonlight. Using a stave he kept to guide the Nerfs he tested the rocky paths for any loose rock or soil before putting his weight on it. That was a signal to the animals that it was all right to follow. Painstaking work it was, but worth it all.

Finally the group reached broader (and flatter) grounds and James allowed them to spread out. Now he could take a more sedate pace as they moved toward the village over on the opposite side of the valley. The one who nudged him by the cliff hugged close by, pressing against him like a burr, a soft, comforting weight by his side. Unknown to James, a faint smile had crept up his hollow features at the touch. He rested his hand upon the shaggy creature's head, and it moved closer to him.

"Hey," he chuckled, pushing it over. "Give me some room."

It pushed back affectionately but allowed him space. In reply its master rubbed the quadhorned head again. It gave a breathy sigh and closed its eyes in pleasure. James laughed again.

The winding valley below divided two of the seven peaks by means of a rushing wide river originating in the highest of the mountains. It was nearly impossible to cross except in the dead of winter when the snow and ice kept the water locked up, exposing fords that could be safely passed over. However, being ever resourceful, the Vrurkii villagers had rebuilt an ancient bridge left over from the dead nation, filling in crumbled portions and damaged areas with adamant mined in nearby quarries and reinforcing the foundations with magically-hardened stone brought from the South, removing the danger posed to herdsmen and others. That bridge now lay before James, looking highly unusual in such a rustic environment as this, being a many-arched edifice with strange creatures (dragonoids and other species of the wyrm) and fantastic, winding plants decorating the sides.

Clicking his fingers and speaking softly he guided the animals down the mountainside and to the wide maw of the bridge. It spanned just over sixty meters wide and five hundred from here to the little cluster of dark buildings; more than enough room for a tiny herd of Nerfs to move with plenty to spare. It didn't take long for them to cross it; James had seen the view more than enough to not take any notice to be distracted.

Little attention too did he spare the village or her inhabitants, but instead passed through it quickly, heading for his home carved out of the mountainside.

Lying behind three, crooked walls, each one with the gates open to the night (bandits stayed close to their holes at this time of year, not even tempted by wandering travelers) and their guards resting in the small, three-storyed towers, the small town of over sixty houses rested quietly beneath the starry heavens. The brown-and-grey buildings lining the twisting streets were like life-sized replicas of the ones constructed out of sugar and other delicacies highborn children were wont to do. Built of the same adamant stone as the bridge, lined outwardly with wood, and roofed with slate yet with straw and other soft grasses insulating them within, these gabled buildings were as durable as the very mountains themselves. They could withstand the storms which battered the mountains, if needed, but those same storms never passed through the gigantic barricade—unless someone commanding supernatural powers, like the Krazoa, forced them to.

Even so lights from within the brown homes caught his eye—the almost supernatural vision of his kind had not been abated with the stripping of his powers—and at times he turned his head to gaze inside. Through frosty panes of silvered-blue glass he could see children playing games, whether of the quiet, intellectual kind or the more physical variety (though quietly, for fear of disturbing their parents) with one another. Their elders, seated in chairs, stools and benches out of harm's way, conversed on every possible topic known to mountain villagers. There were even small creatures, pets of divers species and breeds in countless variations of colors, hues and shadings mixed in among both child and adult. Fires crackled in the background or from the sides, illuminating swords or spears across the mantelpiece and rough wooden shields emblazoned with arcane symbols, or left simply bare, hanging from the walls, throwing shadows from the moving figures of man and beast. They were all inviting, but he was alone, had never mingled since he had come to live with them unless at great need.

Unknown to him, behind his back or whenever his head was turned away, faces pressed themselves against the windows, little faces of small kittens, tiny vulpi and pups, eyes all awondering why he was all alone or had come so late. They all knew who he was, or thought they did, a strange little sorcerer who never was seen without his Nerfs clustering around him, but a friendly man nonetheless. They knew he sometimes gave gifts to them, often to the littlest or youngest, could perform marvelous tricks with a wave of his hand, and would even tell stories of strange and wondrous lands beyond the mountains, the oceans, and even the stars if they pleaded enough. And they had learned that Nerfs, despite their smell and cantankerous habits, were quite gentle creatures, really. They had long since adopted him as a grandfatherly figure, and hung on his every word.

Tonight though, as he trudged home, none came outside to—he would never admit it, not even in thought—give the Nerf-herder some much needed company. He could even forget the depression if they did. But their parents never allowed it—thought it too dark or cold, whichever came first. They thought differently of the stranger than did their little progeny, too. Some had spent time South in the cities where news and goods both flowed freely from the interplanetary ports, and knew the implications surrounding the three pentacled marks on his face not long after he came to live among them; and what some knew everyone in a village as isolated as this one soon knew too. Not that he was utterly rejected, for such communities protect their own. He had caused no trouble so far as they could see, and had harmed none of their broods; and, despite the witchy-looking marks upon his face, the elderly matrons had long since pronounced that he was of no danger, and their word was final. Still, suspicions never went away once roused, and he did nothing to discourage them.

James passed through the third gate, acknowledged a wave from one of the guards, and continued up the path to his own home.

The house ahead blended within the mountain stone, scrubby foliage growing on the gabled roof and walls. Beside it was a larger structure, also set half in the mountain rock. Upon either side of the house-door were two windows, each one shuttered tightly. An ivy-like plant grew over half of one, of a kind which still bloomed even at this time of year. All three openings were of rough brown wood, contrasting sharply with the grey-white walls. Straddling the three steps leading to a small stone portico was a now barren garden; in the summer it would be filled with all sorts of plants, both edible and colorful. He'd bought it from the family who owned it for almost nothing when he first came to live here, for they had their homes in the village, and this was but a crumbling ruin. Now, long rebuilt since, it was home, sweet home to an exile.

James turned aside and went to the smaller building. He inserted a key into the lock and moments later led the sleepy animals inside. They shuffled in, one after another. They all knew the way. Overhead the watchful gaze of their Nerf-herder counted them silently. Satisfied they were all there, he turned to ensure they were properly bedded down for the night. James knew fully well as did every other caretaker of animals that their charges needed to be kept warm and dry when the temperatures started to drop. The chilly winds by the Crystal Sea had warned him that tonight was going to be extremely cold—he would not be surprised to see the first patches of icy snow on the ground the next morning.

As he stuffed straw over the sleepy beasts lying down in their nests and filling the mangers with fresh hay for the morrow, thoughts started to flicker in the back of his mind, too faint to make out clearly, but a vague unease clouded them. Faint flickers of remembrance flared to life like tiny flames in the distant caverns of his consciousness, having brooded for years in the subconscious where they'd been forced to stay; and were only now coming back to the surface because of his latent depression. James did not recognize this, but it was enough to make him both curious and worried.

One of the Nerfs thought the same too, for when James stood, the same one "bumped" into him again as he sidled over to the fowl coop.

"What is it, friend?" he asked, leaning down to look into its dark, glassy eyes. "Is your bed uncomfortable?"

The beast shook its head, and prodded him again.

James' face crinkled in confusion. Surely there was something wrong, else this beast would not have nudged him as often as it did. He got up and went to its stall. "See," he said, looking at the Nerf after patting the nest, "there is nothing here. Now lie down and rest. There will be plenty of time tomorrow to sit with me."

The beast's shaggy head swung from his smiling face to the straw several times; within those eyes an intelligence knew that he was covering something, but of course it could not speak or give voice to its thoughts. James merely patted it again, then stood. He nudged it into the bed, and left. The Nerf's dark eyes watched him as he departed; then, with an internal "sigh" of defeat, it laid down its head to sleep.

James went back to the coop, looked in, was satisfied when he heard the fowls' sleepy clucking, then made for the barn entrance, leaving the stave by the door.

As he closed the door and locked it up, there again came the pressing of recollection to his mind, like a faint wisp of woodsmoke to his nostrils—but stronger. He paused, key turned in the lock. Sounds not known in the mountains came to him, faint scents he had once breathed filtered to him, sights and colors, dim yet present, impressed themselves in small flashes upon his eyelids. Then the world blacked out momentarily.

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_Hard stone. Blackest darkness. Strange and frightening sounds echoing. Musty smells both foul and strange made him cough. An arm moved. The rattle of chains sounded. Pains reverberated off the inside of an aching skull. The blast used by the Krazoan mages had been just enough to knock him out of the sky and render him powerless. Then there came a stabbing light to add unto the pain—a white glare from a single lantern…_

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James caught his breath, feeling a tight pain inside his chest.

_No, please, no. Father, please, spare me…_

He turned slowly, a hand on his chest, hoping to make inside before it struck. Too late! No sooner did he move than did another phantom pain, this one even stronger, strike him again.

"Gah," he choked out, sinking to one knee. The world started to become fuzzy, a hazy shade of greys and blacks clouding his vision, which suddenly began to constrict into a thin tunnel. The ground began to quiver—or was it just him?—and the contents of his stomach started churning most uncomfortably.

"No!" he gasped, "Please, no…"

Both hands were on the ground now, struggling to keep him from falling forward. The world shifted and faded, blinking in and out of sight. The garden and portico of his home looked so distant even though they were but a meter or two away. James' head started to spin, his equilibrium becoming unbalanced—

With an abrupt motion the ex-Krazoa collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

The mountains, the skies and even the ground itself disappeared.

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	5. Scene Four—Those who Judge

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_Ten winters ago, on Sauria…_

"Well, well, well, look who's awake!" came the grating voice of the reptilian guard, unlocking the cell door. He shone the light again in the prisoner's face, then grunted. "Had a good night's sleep?" It was not at all meant kindly.

Wordlessly James growled in reply, turning his face from the light. He had not spent a good night at all, not since the arrest. The aftereffects of the spells used to bring him down were still ringing throughout his head; yet the pain was not that severe as to prevent him from thinking clearly. He was a "god", after all, not a mere mortal who would have been killed by such powerful magics that had used on him. His powers, restrained as they were by the spells of blocking upon the chains, had been slowly healing him as he slept. Even now, however, the words of the guard cut through like a poorly sharpened knife.

Getting no response out of the prisoner the guard grunted again. "You'll talk soon enough," he said, chuckling.

"Enough," came a voice behind him. James squinted, trying to see past the light to the dark entrance to the owner of the voice. It carried the ring of authority to it.

"Of course, mi'lord," the guard mumbled. "He's all yours." He stood aside and shuttered the light.

In the glare of the retreating light there came four hooded men in the black robes that was their badge of office—senior Krazoa, yet highly proficient in their specialized magics of all those in the Lower Castes—and following them were six heavily armed and armored soldiers, all reptilian like the prison guard. They took up positions 'round the cell walls, and leveled their long spears at him. The tips crackled faintly, revealing the ensorcellments within—and the guards' locations. The mages went to the bound man and unloosed his chains from the wall.

James' only response was a harsh sound, not even a laugh, but it showed his derision. Even chained up as he was they still thought of him as too powerful to leave unattended. He wondered how many were outside, waiting.

As if anticipating his thought, one of the Black Robes "spoke" to him. **_~Do not attempt an escape, McCloud. You may get a lighter sentence if you behave~_**

"Uh, huh," he began, but it was cut off by a cuff to the head. "_Oof!_"

_**~Do not speak until required, McCloud~**_

This time he obeyed. Stars ringing and flashing in his head, he got himself onto his feet—none of those with him showed the slightest inclination to pick him up, and that was fine by him—and stood unsteadily, waiting to get his balance back. The spells had many, many powerful effects, but some of the minor ones was loss of equilibrium.

Before he had a chance to fully recover, however, the Black Robes simultaneously tugged his chains forward the moment he stood, throwing him off-balance—_"Gah!"_—and started walking briskly. The guards fell in behind, leaving the jailer to lock up behind them, prodding the prisoner when he lagged behind. Not a word was exchanged between the Krazoa holding him but they had other means of communication, and not all of them with the mind or emotion. The guards, dumb, brute beasts they may be, were also similarly silent. That was fine by him; he would not put up with such insolence as chatter, even in his state of confinement.

Once they had left the cell James' captors pulled him along just as forcefully as before, setting a rapid pace he could barely keep up in his weakened condition. The transition from cell to corridor had been so rapid he couldn't have known if there were others behind them—but he knew well enough not to do anything foolish. Torches ensconced within the walls showed the dank, bare stone of the dungeons. They also showed every single detail of those sent to escort him—the Krazoan Black Robes were none he recognized, the guards too. Idly he wondered what had happened to those poor wretches back in the Temple. Had they suffered some sort of punishment for their master's illegal assault? Not very likely—even the lowest of the novices would testify they had no knowledge of what he did, if only out of utter fear of punishment. No, it was he whom they had caught—he had been alone, and they couldn't argue with that.

Unless they were complete monsters after all…

Passageway after twisting passageway fell away before their swift movements. Only the tramp-tramp of the soldiers' clawed boots was heard, echoing amongst the walls, concealing the softer sounds of the Krazoa's more gently clad feet; James wore none, and he winced each time his feet made contact with the cold stone floor. None of the others took notice. He was a prisoner after all.

At last they reached the upper levels. Now the passageways changed into broad, arched hallways held aloft by tall fluted columns of alabaster interposed with marble, each emblazoned with the golden pentacle. Intricately made mosaics inlaid the floors, each one more colorful than the last, and beautiful arabesques covered the walls and ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, each one holding a thousand candles arranged in complex shapes and patterns. Here and there were massive portraits of the Krazoa "gods", masked or unmasked, each one spanning the wall from ceiling to floor. None were of him.

All of this was repeated as they went deeper inside what James now recognized as the Krazoa Palace, the so-called "abode of the gods". It was a massive, magnificent cathedral-like building, spanning hundreds upon thousands of acres of land just outside the city—covering even most of a mountain, in fact—with many towers of marble and obsidian piercing the skies, minarets of diamond and adamant springing ever upwards, domes of gold and mother-of-pearl covering the massive edifice like the jewels of the Crowns of Zoness; the largest, most opulent structure in all of Sauria, indeed, of all the Lylat. The number of rooms, corridors, hallways, observatories, antechambers, stairwells, atriums, libraries and hundreds of others contained within were endless. One could easily become lost in this place. Fortunately there were countless armies of servants, hundreds of which whose sole task was to simply keep the place clean—amid thousands of other monotonous duties—or guide the wayward.

James' face changed into a leering smirk when they passed a great number of those servants polishing a statue of some winged creature of mythology off to the hall's side. Once, he would have thought nothing of such a thing like this; now he could see how utterly pathetic everything was in his imprisonment. Everything!

**_~Eyes forward~_**

There came another cuff to the head, but this time he ducked. The spear-butt passed over, but there came no other assault after that. For the sake of keeping his skull intact James refrained from doing anything other than simply putting forward one foot at a time.

_**~Smart man. Keep it that way~**_

He growled inaudibly in reply as they continued on.

For all of the Palace's immense size the Black Robes knew exactly where they needed to go. After passing by the hundredth, thousandth room the size of a ballroom and filled with the most ostentatious decorations, ornament and furniture of outrageous decadence, and countless halls to other portions of the Palace, the group entered a much more modest corridor, smaller in size yet still opulent enough to be leagues above the dungeons. Marking the end of the hall were two dull bronze doors, seemingly out of place in such a royal environment, with only a single, large pentacle worked upon their surface. Two more guards stood, their long spears poised at attention, blue-and-bronze armor gleaming in the light of lamps set within golden cressets. Their tribal-looking helmets were eerie, shaped as they were in imitation of their overlords' masks. There were no outward adornment save for three pentacles each upon the chest-plates.

One of the Krazoa reached forward and touched the doors. A chime sounded and the great panels of metal began to slide open, grinding as they moved in their tracks. As they moved into the walls James was hustled forward into a small ante-chamber where more guards, Black Robes, and other Krazoan castes awaited, all standing in ranks, their eyes facing forward in perfect military discipline, moving neither to the right nor left; their gaze too was as tightly controlled. The chamber was of no note save that it was a smaller, pygmy version of all the others he'd seen. Another pair of bronze doors, direct copies of the massive ones outside the antechamber but smaller, stood at the opposite end.

"Inform the masters," a Black Robe beside him said, breaking his silence without breaking stride. James mused that it was for the effect of frightening him—he had seen others visibly quake when they heard spoken speech by beings who normally kept totally silent—but he gritted his teeth and held his head high, like a Krazoa.

The extreme number of armed and armored men here had surprised him, though. It didn't bode well. Maybe if he somehow slipped his bonds they were here for just such an eventuality. Perhaps not, given the Krazoa's utter unpredictability when they wished it.

The pair of doors broke open silently, curving inward instead of sliding backwards into the walls; then stopped with a hollow gong as they halted against the walls. James was roughly pushed forward, even though he had not faltered in his step nor stumbled, as they reached the end of their journey, short despite the vast number of rooms and halls they had gone through. They entered the Judgement Hall.

With a clang, the doors closed shut behind him, and were locked.

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_**Breathe**_—**Two Steps from Hell/GRV Music Remix**—(AmazonMP3, Spotify, iTunes [former]; YouTube [both])

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"Do you know why you are here, brother?"

The voice, soft as it were, carried an edge to it. It reverberated quietly through the air like the sound of a distant gong, yet one with a foreboding quality to it, echoing in the great chamber.

James looked about the room from where he stood, chains bound tightly into the floor.

The Judgement Hall was a wide, circular sanctum measuring nearly two hundred paces in diameter, the walls shrouded in shadow save where flame-red torches burned. Five smooth pillars stretched high into the vaulted, arched ceiling with seven Thrones upon elevated daises between them. It had the feel of a dungeon—and that was intentional. The thousand-tiled floor was bare of color save white and gold, naked of adornment except a massive five-pointed star, the tips of which touched the bases of the pillars. That same symbol was repeated upon the backs of the Thrones and the walls, in flame-red gold, the emblem of the Krazoan Order.

Sitting in the Thrones—he noted wryly that an eighth had been removed—were the Krazoa "gods", the ultimate authority in all of the Lylat. Four were female, three male; all concealed in their great, ubiquitous golden masks and clothed in voluminous blue robes with gold lining the edges. Any indication of species, the bodies they had chosen to use, were hidden from view. Despite the seemingly pompous elegance they wore, there was a stifling air of severe austerity about them, almost as if they carried heavy burdens that they had tried, and failed, to remove from their shoulders time and again. (Only he, and they, knew the significance of that; those lower than they were subject to the limitations of mortality.) It was an intimidating sight to an ordinary person—but he was also one of them, and he showed no fear anyhow.

The one who spoke sat alone while the others were three upon either side; the senior-most Lord of the "gods". His mask was the largest and most ornate of the seven, yet far from being silly and pretentious it looked quite regal. The silvered eyes and carven features showed no emotion, but his voice was all that mattered. "Do you know why you are here, McCloud?" he asked again.

"Hmm, let me think," James responded, rolling his eyes. "No, I do not know why I'm here. Care to enlighten me?"

In fact he knew perfectly well why he was there—only a foolish man would pretend to deny he hadn't committed any crime whatsoever, or the magnitude of the crime James had done—but what he really wanted to know was the justification for this, the assembling of all the Krazoa. It couldn't be for the simple disciplining of one of their number, that was for sure; too minor to pull _all_ from their planetary duties. Neither could it be to avenge the death of a most notorious highborn, noxious in both word and deed, however evil he may have been. James knew they could muster nothing against him concerning that. He already had a number of reasons behind it. No, there had to be another reason.

But what he did was no secret; it was surprisingly clear-cut. Just days after he'd rescued Vixy from death, and installed her into his quarters permanently, James had taken a stroll through the Merchant's District in the dead of night—moving toward Vixy's highborn master's home. Not because he wished to hide but to spare the rest of the common people the sight of what would happen. As an added consideration, he had quietly ordered his people to remove all the innocent from the vicinity of the highborn's manor before he set out, and once it was accomplished his way was clear. He'd gone up to the entrance of the sumptuous building, knocked upon the iron gates, and brushed past the armsmen who came to detain him. He similarly passed through the threshold, disregarding the lack of butlers and servants to greet him—he knew they hid from his gaze, terrified of him. There, in the fine parlor of the house, he confronted the ravisher of his wife.

Moments later, his rage broke loose.

The insolent man had refused to apologize to him, and Vixy, claiming he had every right to do what he pleased to his servants, adding snidely the caveat that it was under Krazoan law that he could do this. James surely had to understand that no one can go against those laws unless it be all the "gods". Who was he to protest against what was simply both tradition and canon when it was his own superiors who sanctioned this? Apparently the foolish ape thought him to be one of the lower Krazoa instead of the "gods"; while such beings were higher than the mortal folk the Order ruled, in practice there were rankings by which even the highborn were superior to certain classes of Krazoan castes. It was here the floodgates of his fury burst asunder, that at last he realized why his warnings had gone unheeded, and then all rational thought and logic disappeared.

By the time a substantial number of Krazoan Black Robes—hundreds, too, when he resisted—had arrived to contain and imprison the rouge "god" James had laid waste to the entire manor, and nearly half the surrounding district (which, as per his orders given beforehand in anticipation of this, had been emptied) a smoldering ruin. He vaguely remembered fighting off his captors as they struggled to subdue him, even injuring some most grievously, but in the end they had prevailed and he was thrown in the dungeons of the Krazoa Palace.

Now here he was, before his peers, and waiting for an answer—or justification—to the real reason of this hearing. His question sent a stir through the Krazoa, imperceptible to any other save him.

"You will restrain your impudence, McCloud," a female voice off to the vulpes' right said, "for we will broker no tolerance of your rebellious ways." Her tone was steady and even. "Failure to do so will lose you the right to speak your defense."

"My defense?" he responded again, standing straighter despite his chains and aching head and looked at her. "I was under the impression I had no defense. I do not deny what I did—I'd do it again if I had to. Why do you hide behind this pretense of a hearing? Tell me first, then I will answer."

"You are correct, McCloud," the Krazoa Lord replied, ignoring the latter half what the vulpes said, his voice sounding as if from a great distance while James' was but a flat monotone. "Nonetheless we grant you the right to speak your case, in the hopes of easing your sentence that is to come."

James shrugged his shoulders, chains clinking as he did so. "Oh, why bother. You are going to convict me anyway. Why not just get it over with?—dispense with the procedures and finish it."

"No. Formalities will be obser—"

"Formalities!" James hissed, eyes suddenly flashing. "You call it formalities; I call it injustice," he said, shaking a manacled fist at them. "If you hypocrites spent half as much time caring for the simple beings under your protection as you do now enforcing laws which strip them of any right to live a decent life then I might buy that asinine farce you call "formalities"! I did what I had to do precisely because you did not have the _bloody guts_ to put right from the beginning!"

"You call the destruction of the last member of an ancient and most noble bloodline... justice, McCloud?" the Krazoa asked, emphasizing the word _justice_. "We are under the impression it was an act of revenge."

James' eyes widened the merest fraction of an inch, but he quickly recovered.

"What makes you say that?" he fired off, shaking his fist again at the speaker. "He was a pox-ridden, Darkness-cursed bastard, known to everyone, including you, as one of the most tyrannical highborn to have ever lived! His "ancient and noble" family were no better. They squeezed the very life-blood out of the common people, stealing them blind; and you condone such behavior with your laws," he snorted, "those laws which privilege the rich and squash the poor down into the dirt. Admit it, you only support them because they are the water-canals through which your wealth and power flows."

"That is inconsequential, McCloud. We do not fear them, no matter how many "injustices" you charge us with," came the cold reply. "Yet we do fear the loss of the greater majority of the common people, those poor souls who would be lost without us to guide them. Highborn are inconsequential; they are not. If they all decided to forsake us at this moment they would not last without us. They would sink back down into their barbarism and savagery, and everything which we have done for them would be for naught—and we would be as before, wandering spirits. What you did threatened the prestige and survival of the Krazoan Order, your own people, and that must be addressed."

"Let them forsake you," James sneered. "Let them, if that is your fear. Let's see how _you_ fare without the countless treasures pouring into your coffers and vaults, of the salutations the learned and wise shower upon you, of the many genuflections the common rabble bestow to your honor. Try and do something good for a change, why don't you? Then you will earn those gold coins and praises which pour through your hands like water like honest men. You say you serve the Father, yet how much of that lip-service translates into reality, hmm?"

He was ignored.

"Your act of revenge has not gone unnoticed, McCloud, for there are already whispers in the city." (An understatement to say the least; crews were still clearing away the blasted ruins even as hearing went on.) "Who would know what would happen if it spread offworld?" The Krazoa Lord's eyes bored a hole into James' own. "Do you?"

"No."

"Chaos and anarchy, the slide back into barbarism for these peoples; and the Outer Darkness will descend upon this system as it has for countless others. You would have destroyed everything which we have built for them." The Krazoa paused. "Ah, yes," he said at last, "it was an act of revenge, no matter your high-sounding words. Do you know what that means?"

"No." James' voice trembled slightly.

"You did this all for the sake of a mere woman."

James stared, not moving. Then he began to laugh; it was weak, but a laugh nonetheless. "She is my wife!" he choked out, laughing hard, "and if you had your loved one dishonored by that whoreson day in, day out, you'd strike back just like I did, and with the same justifications, too! I put up with it long enough, and I warned him _repeatedly_ to keep his filthy paws off her! I stand by what I said before," he repeated, holding himself erect, "it was the much belated justice of the Father."

"All this for a concubine?"

"Haven't you idiots figured it out by now?" James cried out, but was cut off by the female who'd spoke against him before.

"You shall remain silent," she said sternly. James' tongue instantly glued itself to the roof of his mouth immediately following her words, and he gagged on words that would not come out. He turned hate-filled eyes upon her, but she sat immobile as a statue, emotionless behind her mask.

"All this, James, for a mere concubine? Is this why you have chosen to throw your honor away like this?" the male Krazoa asked again, his voice lowered. It sounded exactly like the tone a parent would use in chastising a beloved child—though the analogy was far from correct. "We do not recognize marriages between mortal and immortal. We all swore we would have no intermingling of royal blood with that of mere commoner. It was for our protection, your protection too, from the lowest unto the highest. Your actions have proven that, once again, why we do not "marry" mere mortals. Do you understand that?"

James' eyes blazed forth in fury but powerless as he was he could do nothing. He merely stood there mutely, glaring daggers at the one upon the Throne, neither confirming nor denying this statement. He knew.

"We all knew the danger of giving into our baser instincts, into the curse which the Father had set upon us," the enthroned being continued. "We swore that as long as we lived we would not lower ourselves to the estate of these beasts. We are a race of beings higher than they, not animals or savages; more noble than they could ever hope to be in their heated imaginations. All of what you did, for a lowly concubine, and a mortal at that, has threatened the stability of the Order, the very foundations upon which it is built. Should word of this spread our lives would be overthrown. Not even we can control a vast uprising without incredible loss of life. We'd be forced to spend countless æons reteaching the generations to come how to properly serve us."

And here he leaned forward. When he next spoke, his voice burned with an unquenchable fire—it was such that James was forced to shield his face from the masked being. "And for all of this, you shall pay the ultimate price," he whispered; but his voice carried across the room, as forceful as a warhammer. "Not in ages have we been forced to do this, but you have proven yourself both unreasonable and unruly, McCloud. You will pay the ultimate price."

His words finally gave James the answer which he sought… and he suddenly shivered, when the Krazoa Lord next spoke.

"Who amongst the gods wishes to pass sentence upon this rebellious spirit?" he asked, straightening up. "Who among you here wishes to put an end to this foolishness of our misguided brother?"

"I wish to pass sentence," the female spoke, her voice cold as iron.

"I wish to pass sentence," came the male seated next to her. The others all repeated the exact same wording, their voices both as cold as the ice-bound oceans of Fichina and heated like the fire-geysers of the Red Star. Anger at its most terrible.

The Krazoa leader nodded to each in turn, then turned to look at a now frozen James McCloud. "Listen, brother of ours, and heed us well," he intoned. "For your actions done yestermorn and crimes committed against the last of an ancient family and this Order, you are thereby Sentenced," (the emphasis was most pronounced), "to be stripped of your powers and position within the ranks of the gods, of the Krazoa themselves.

"From this moment on, you are hereby banished from every realm and civilization under the Order's protection," came the unison judgement of the Krazoan gods, cold, implacable condemnation. "May none give you comfort, succor or aid; may none take you into their home; may none welcome you as visitor or friend. For now, until evermore, your Kurse will mark you as Outcast and brigand."

James' mouth opened silently in horror. Never did he think it would come to this. Somehow his tongue was unloosed and he dropped to his knees. "No, no!" he cried out, clasping his hands together in entreaty. "Not that, please, no, not that—I'll do anything, _anything!_—just not that, please!"

A Black Robe stepped out from the shadows cast by the central Throne. Its hands glowed an orange-red, marked with a familiar symbol of ebony. The hidden eyes beneath the hood were fastened upon the the now screaming vulpes. Then it stepped forward.

Eyes widening at the Robe's appearance, James immediately jumped up and turned to run, but the chains locked more tightly into the floor with a powerful grip. James' arms were pulled backwards by the suddenly living adamantium links even as he struggled to free himself. Spittle flew from his open mouth as he strained with all his might, his screams echoing in the chamber.

The Black Robe slowly came around to stand before him. It lifted its hands, now glowing whiter than the star Lylat itself, the pentacled star outlined in darkest black upon the palms, and reached out. James tried to fling himself backwards but his legs and body refused to obey him, the serpentine chains curling around him until he was encased in a straitjacket. He shut his eyes, threw his head back as far as it would go; but the blinding light and intense heat was too clos—

The screams rose even higher, in mortal, sublime agony, this time accompanied with the sounds of sizzling flesh and flaming fur—and a most foul stench filled the room, as more than flesh was torn out. The very fundamental aspects of his being were stripped from him, everything innate to his own spirit burned away, his mind feeling as if it were sliced open by a flaming sword, all in an instant. The vulpes' mouth was opened as wide as it could go as he felt his own "body" shrinking swifter than the falling of a meteorite, the loss of power and transcendence—the only thing able to describe the shredding of _everything_ elemental to his own self!

Then it was over.

James sank to his knees, the chains finally releasing him, falling away from his arms and legs, and he collapsed facedown onto the mosaiced floor, sobbing inconsolably.

"Thus we have spoken," came the final, irrevocable intonation.

The bang of a gavel came distantly to James' ears, but he saw and heard nothing as he mourned for the loss of his own self. It felt exactly as if one had lost everything they had ever known about their life, their recollections, the friendships, the loves, the joys of living, the security of home and hearth, the beautiful feeling of being welcomed—and all of it destroyed in an instant, leaving naught but a ghost behind, the merest wispy shade of a spirit. Not even the comfort of starting over was left to him.

Nothing answered him as he wept, the only sounds answering were his own sobs echoing 'round the sanctum, curled up like a whipped beast, clutching his limbs tightly as if they too would be torn from him next. The Robe stood by patiently, silent as stone, as James writhed upon the floor.

When he finally lifted his watery-blue eyes, Vixy was kneeling before him.

"V—Vixy…!" he gasped out, releasing an arm to futilely reach out to her. "R—Run for—for your—"

But she did not respond. Her eyes looked unnaturally wide as she gazed beyond him to the Krazoa, yet they moved, as if there were something else she saw other than them. Her white clothing was damp with sweat, clinging to her body alluringly while her fur no longer looked sleek. He couldn't understand why his own wife couldn't hear his voice, close as she was to him.

Then there came a single smell to his senses—fear. Sounds came next, her husky breathing quick and fevered. Chuckling started to come faintly to his ears—it hovered at the edges of his senses, refusing to come close—and somehow he knew something wasn't right.

"She cannot hear you, McCloud," the female Krazoa answered him. "What you see is an illusion, a shade. Your concubine is elsewhere." There came a long, delicate pause. "But this will be sufficient."

Her words moved sluggishly through his fogged mind, clouded by red storms of residue agony. When they finally penetrated to him, his features contorted into a mask of supreme anguish. _"Why?!"_ he croaked, but none answered this time.

Then there came speech.

_"What a pretty thing she is,"_ a guttural voice spoke, clogged with spittle and phlegm. _"So sweet and soft too—"_

_"You'd only tear her up, Olur. This one's mine—"_

_"Shut yer arse, Glubnark!"_

_"Silence. The both of you."_ The quarreling voices fell silent._ "I will decide who has her, gents,"_ the commanding voice, also like the other two exactly in tone and quality but more refined, said imperiously._ "And you can be sure it won't be either of you."_

_"What about you, boss?"_ came another, obsequious voice, but nonetheless as eager as the others. _"Will you be having her?"_

_"What is that to you, Uzul?"_ the other asked, though something in his tone caused an uproar of laughter.

"No! no, please, no, not her!" James screamed hoarsely, unable to tear his eyes from Vixy's fear-stricken features. He reached out to touch her, to grab at her, but his hand passed through mist and cloud. "Not her, please—!"

A large, bulky reptoid entered into the apparition. Green-skinned, thickly muscled and with horrible scars running down his face the warrior was a giant compared to the shaking vixen, towering over her like a mountain would a tree… or a cat to a mouse. His twisted face transformed into a leering smirk as he regarded her. Vixy's body gave an enormous shudder as her eyes locked with his. Her mouth opened silently, entreating words unable to come forth as she frantically shook her head.

Suddenly the massive reptoid threw out an arm and dragged Vixy to her feet. She squawked, and tried to wriggle away—but he twisted her elbow 'round her back and forced the vixen to lean against him.

_"You, you, and you can have her next,"_ he growled to others outside the vision, holding her tightly. Then he gripped her blouse's front and tore it away.

James screamed.

Shreds of cloth littered the floor as he ripped more away, and in bigger swaths. There was not much on her. Within seconds her nubile crimson body was exposed to the world for all to see, those perky breasts bouncing crazily about without any bindings, lightly colored belly heaving as she tried desperately to pull away—and her dark red thighs, forced apart by the man's powerful leg, were most especially visible.

Roars of laughter filled the "room" as the invisible warriors jeered at her, some openly speculating whether she could survive her "first" man without keeling over. Vixy completely lost it, and started screaming abuse at them. But her wide eyes, now bigger than platters, belied her seeming bluster.

_"Shut up, bitch,"_ her captor growled, though grinning evilly at her defiance. He roughly shoved her, pivoting his leg around one of hers and flipped her over, to the ground. He turned to where she lay prone upon the ground—the misty vision stayed in place though the scene "moved" within to where they were now "before" James' sight—panting, stunned by the blow, her behind pointed straight up in the air. He grinned again. _"Time to scream,"_ he said, unbuckling his trousers. Then, grasping her waist, the reptoid shoved himself upon her.

Vixy screeched as she felt his massive self enter her; it was like a burning fire compared to the softer ministrations of James. Her eyes rolled backwards as he started pounding her, more roars of laughter and catcalling filling her ears; and in spite of herself, could not control even the moans of pain/pleasure escaping her lips. She twisted in vain, her hands scrabbling the stone "floor" in an attempt to free herself, but he held her still, forcing her body to move as he willed.

James could do nothing but watch as the gigantic reptoid hunched away at her rhythmically, grunting like a pig. Her awful cries, and the invisible soldiers' boisterous laughter, mingled with the slaps of thick, battle-hardened flesh against her delicate buttocks; he couldn't shut it out, not even if his hands were pressed to his head. Neither could he banish the sight, now forever imprinted upon his mind.

"Take him away." came the command, distantly to his ears.

The reptoid leader's movements became more intense, as excitement and pleasure built rapidly inside his loins, and no matter how hard Vixy tried to pull away, she too was carried along with it. Then he gasped, deeper than hers, and his body spasmed with the orgasm—and ejaculation. "_Aaaah_—_yes!_"

The warrior, finished with her, pulled away; thick, gooey stuff dripping from his front and her behind. Spots of red could be seen. After using her limp brush to clean himself—she had collapsed, sobbing, when he released her—he turned away, the arousal visibly beginning to detumescence, and said, _"Have at her, gents!"_; then began lacing up his trousers.

Then others, dark, hulking beasts with no discernible features other than a swarming mass, filled the vision. They took her up, pulled her arms and legs apart, and continued the ravishment; one grabbed her behind and penetrated just below the tail, while another had her sit upon his now throbbing lap. One even sized her howling mouth and, opening it wide, forced her head onto—

Two pairs of arms grabbed the Kursed Krazoa and dragged him off the floor, and pulled him through the vision. It dissipated. More took hold, lifting him bodily from the ground as all his remaining strength drained away like water. Everything else was a swirl of light and sound, mixed and dissolved colors.

Somehow, just before James was pulled from the Judgement Hall, he found his voice one last time.

_"This is why the Father has cursed us, you monsters!"_ he cried out desperately, unable to shake away the vision. _"You will never see the Realms of Eternal Light ever again, cursed to the Outer Darkness forever, if you continue like this! You hear me, cursed! every last one of you_…_!"_

Just before the bronze doors closed, the Krazoan gods answered one more time: "We have no intention of doing so, Kursed one. This is all that matters."

Then everything shattered with an earsplitting wail—and faded into oblivion.

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	6. Scene Five—Angel of the Lord

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_**Hark! the Herald Trumpets Sing Fanfare**_—**Mannheim Steamroller**—(YouTube, Spotify, iTunes, Google Play, AmazonMP3, eMusic)

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Whirling through the air, as if on wings of ethereal gossamer, came the sprites of snow and ice, strange beings which controlled the fundamental elements of nature since the dawn of Time.

Without a care in the world or overburdening loads upon their backs, as did mortal men doomed to die, these were indifferent to the griefs and sorrows of the world; often, when beholding those in torment, they looked on curiously, trying to discover what made them so, as dispassionate observers. But their minds, limited as they were to moving the aspects of nature, had no capacity for those sorts of things, or even for lingering on them; and compassion was a foreign concept, though they would have readily understood it. Of all the creatures afflicted by the curse of the Father, these were least affected of all.

Shaped like men of fair stature and body, or like animals or other creatures of nature, these beings were most often seen by children, of all kinds, for children, when very young, are not at all like their elders—moody, suspicious, or cruel-hearted. No, not at all. And of all creatures, save the animals, children were the ones the misty sprites of nature loved to dance with the most. Their names were numberless and myriad, but the all embracing word "fairy" gave a general description to most; some, but not all: And the Cornerian culture had its own name for these creatures, the Féni, or the "forest-folk".

They flew through the great Vrurkii Mountains, scattering hoarfrost and snow from their fingertips and feet as they went. They descended upon the village near the base of the mountains as with a storm—for clouds were their vehicle and the winds their highway—and covered it in moments with a thick blanket of deep, fantastically white snow.

Some migrated up and away from their kinsfolk, up to higher altitudes where the snow never melted, and zipped to a lonely pair of dwellings one espied nestled against the mountain. Laughing gaily the sprites glided downwards to the ground, and raced the rest of the way up the stony path (now being covered with a rapid veiling of pale ivory) to the home. So intent were they upon filling the area with ice and snow they did not see the unconscious vulpes until just after they ensconced him underneath.

"… No… Please, no… I'll do anything… please, Father…!"

They scattered at the faint sound coming from seeming nowhere, darting behind rocks or bare plants to hide from what they perceived as a "threat"; though it was rather akin to birds scattering from a stone thrown by a little child only for a moment afore coming back down to rest where they had stood. When nothing was forthcoming—the voice moved neither away nor towards them, but stayed—the Féni beings quietly glided out from where they hid, and approached.

James' skin had changed in moments with the rapidly dropping temperatures from a healthy pale-red color to a bluish-white shade, the first stages of frostbite setting in—his fur hardly looked orange now, the skin underneath had changed so quickly. It now looked as if he had a severe case of mange, pale patches of red remained clinging onto him. But there was still life within that numb body. His brush, whose fur had fluffed out greatly at first, then shrunk, moved stiffly under a sudden layer of thick snow, causing a mound to form with the movement. An arm reached out, hand disfigured horribly into a clawed shape, pushing aside ice and snow—or tried to, for it was now hard as rock, and it sliced through his fingers. Dark blood came out, but only in driblets, nearly black against hard pale-blue ice and the nighttime.

"F—Father… Father… please, sp—spare her…!" came his feeble voice as he vainly continued to reach out for something or someone only he could see.

The Féni watched as he started, painfully, crawling to the iced-over stone portico not too far from where he lay—though at the pace he moved, it looked as though it were a thousand leagues from him. One of the sprites thought for a moment, then darted away. Moments later it returned with a sprite of living flame, a brightly burning figure of bronze-red amidst the pale blue and white faeries. Gesticulating and pointing at the stiffening vulpes the first sprite made known its intentions to the one of flame. The other nodded.

It lightly leapt through the air and landed before the uncomprehending man. Even if he had been able to see the being—looking as it did like a will-o'-the-wisp fire, even to ordinary men—he couldn't understand what or why it was doing there, his mind so clouded over with memories more harder and sharper than reality.

Moving its arms in an intricate dance, the _salamander_ created a wheel of flame, and began moving back, melting the adamantine snow down to the ground. With the path to the stone porch completed, it leapt around the frozen body and melted the encircling ice, freeing it from immobility.

However kind the gesture may have been, the Féni forgot that without core heat within James' warm-blooded body he could not move much longer, no matter if his way had not been encumbered; and dressed poorly for the sudden change of the weather, so common up here in the mountains, he was losing that heat rapidly. So it was that they looked on bewildered when, after a few more painful inches further, he gave up moving altogether—for it was at that moment his memory finally released him, and all of his energy had been expended reliving it.

"Let me die…" he wept, his voice cracking, "let me die…"

Divining something strange just then, as they gazed at James' dying form, the first snow sprite suddenly looked back. A moment later three others, the _salamander_ included, also looked with it; and then the rest followed suit.

Gliding slowly up the path was a tower of flame, more alive and vibrant than the tiny candle-flame gradually melting the snow where it stood, and drawing steadily near to the creatures of earth, each footstep banishing snow and ice like fog fading before the morning sun. It was roughly man-shaped despite a seemingly amorphous, cloud-like appearance, powerful in figure and form, moving with a purpose unlike the flighty Féni did. As the wind blew against that formless body, it became more defined and clear-cut in response, solidifying rapidly from vapor into shape.

They moved back, trembling, for this was nothing like they had ever seen before. They instinctively knew that this was a creature more… _higher_ than they were, for lack of description; and it deserved obeisance. Several instinctively knelt down.

It drew nigh to them, the wind catching sparks from it and flinging them about, sending them to sizzle in the snow; but no smoke or embers appeared to issue forth, no matter how fiercely the wind blew. It stopped before James, then knelt down.

_"Wake, brother, wake from thy sleep…"_ came a gentle voice from the man of flame, passing an ephemeral hand, anthropoid-like in shape, over the vulpes' prone body, stroking the stiff fur with a tender caress.

Nothing visible was seen, but immediately James coughed, and began to move more animatedly than before. He tried to lift himself up, found he could without extreme effort, and pushed himself to a sitting position, shaking. Color returned to him quickly, reflushing his skin with warm colors as blood started moving throughout the body with renewed vigor; his fur lost that mangey look to it, the ice melting off, and it fluffed up as if newly dried.

_"Rest easy, James,"_ the glowing form beside him said, restraining James before he could make any sudden moves with a yellow-white arm the brightness of the sun. _"You have suffered greatly, and you need your rest. No harm will come to you as I am beside thee."_

"W—Who… who speaks to me?" he asked, shaking still from residual, phantom cold leaving him despite the sudden heat. He shielded his face, eyes blinded by the sudden glare of the being's fiery body. "Tell me… who are you?"

_"I am your brother, James McCloud, sent to thee from the Realms of Eternal Light by Our Father's command. He has heard your plea, and has ordained that now is the time to reveal unto thee and thy kindred, the Exiles, that thine banishment is over—the way home is now opened unto thee again."_

What…?

James started laughing, feebly, in amazement. "Are you daft?" he asked, still chucking uncontrollably. It was the most remarkable thing he had ever heard, even in his befuddled, crippled state, and he could not believe it—even if he were sane. What was sanity again? "Next you'll be telling me the Red Star is habitable—"

_"Do not take my words in jest, brother,"_ the man rebuked him sternly. _"The time has come for your banishment to be revoked—Our Father has decreed it to be so. Do you laugh at him?"_

"Listen, friend," James interrupted, still sounding giddy from his sudden revival, "I do not know who you are, or why you've come to comfort a poor, deranged man with tales of non—"

Without another word the glowing man pulled back and kayoed the chortling, punch-drunk-sounding vulpes in the head, and sent him sprawling on the ground—the snow had retreated around them for several meters in all directions.

_"I understand you have been trapped in the past for all these years, brother,"_ the newcomer announced, standing up, _"but that is not a reason for you to take Our Father's words in vain. It is time you woke up to reality and out of thy pit of despair."_

James shook his aching head, stars flashing with all the force of sunglare, and slowly looked up at him. "What?" he asked, stupidly.

_"Our Father has rescinded the banishment of thee and thy kindred—for now, across the stars, comes the Son,_" the otherworldly creature answered, baldly, with no other embellishment, _"to release thee from bondage forever."_

The dumbfounded vulpes could only shake his head. "No," he muttered. "This cannot be happening." Not another vision… He bowed his head, covered his eyes, and started to crawl away from him. "Please… go away." he said, hiding his face from it, "I've had enough torment, and only ask for a moment's rest." _Please let this apparition go away,_ he pleaded._ Father, please hear me…_

A touch upon his cheek, soft as a feather yet warm as a comfortable fire, caused him to jump. Orange fur standing on end, and tail fluffed out as if in danger of an enemy, his eyes opened to behold the flaming spirit kneeling before him, blocking his path to the house. Heat radiated outwards from it and bathed him with warmth, and in response, he felt… something… everything slide away, like something indescribably filthy and slick dissolving—and leaving, in its place, a curious sensation, like newly laundered clothing just taken from the sun. A strange shiver ran down his spine, as if he remembered something most comforting, and it was pleasant… something he had not felt in a long time.

_"I am not an apparition, nor a servant of the Evil One,"_ the man said slowly, _"and I have come here, not to torment, but to heal. Do you want to hear what I have come to deliver, brother of mine?"_

"What… what is it?" James asked, feeling bewildered and shaken enough for one night, rubbing his aching jaw. He moved a hand to protect his sensitive eyes—but almost instantly the light died down, and the being looked no more as bright as a warming fire of the hearth.

_"I am the messenger of the Father,"_ came the reply, _"from the Realms of Eternal Light, sent unto you with a great proclamation for you and your brothers. The Son has come, your redeemer from thy curse."_

James blinked, startled, and looked up at him in bewilderment. _W—What? How in the...? That name… no, it cannot be…_ The ancient abode of his race, long barred to them for their eternal transgression in the Time before times; for the Rebellion. A place of unimaginable wonder and awe, distant in the minds of even the most visionary of the Exiles, filled with…

He had tried countless times before to summon every shred of remembrance he could, of what he, one of those who had not forgotten who they used to be, of that beautiful, glorious land of the gods… and failed. Only light, distant, burning light—a mere figment of candle-light to the supernovæ-brilliance of what it actually was—had appeared in his mind; and that was most remote, because of the curse…

For the long, endless millennia of the Banishment every and all recollection of those lands, those worlds beyond the realms of the visible and invisible universe, had grown fainter and fainter, until all that could be remembered and felt was forgotten, save for a distant ache in the mind, a vague longing of the soul for the fields of Elysium; even the records of those early æons, those few which the Krazoa possessed, could not recapture that. They were only dry, spotted letters on dusty, crumbling parchments and fading, glitching holo-archives, reading like a fevered fantasy which made no sense, the incomprehensible repetition of words that utterly failed to capture the meaning of glory—sublime, endless, infinite, eternal glory.

To hear those words from someone other than the distant vaults of memory, from the other Exiles, was like a goblet of cold water to quench a burning thirst in a scorching desert under an hostile pair of suns; at times, he had believed they were nothing more than myth, that they were nothing more than the vague promises of afterlife which the common people believed, that which he only half-believed. Unlike they, none of the Exiles had hope for even the most ethereal, most misty, most _invisible_, of afterlifes—a place where they could rest, if only for a moment, to relieve them the agony of eternity within finitude. It was part of the ancient curse the Father had set upon the Creation, that everything except they must and will be subject to death, decay, and destruction. Even the bodies which they used could die, bound by the mortality and finitude of the condemned world—but they, living, trapped spirits, could not rest, condemned to remain within the circles of mortality…

Forever, and ever.

Now it finally crystallized into meaning once more, every forgotten figment of imagination, remembrance, recollection and memory coming back like a tidal wave to overwhelm a miniature sand-castle of constructed lies to fill the void. Even more than the mere mention of those lands came—the countless choirs of singing voices of celestial harmony, the old times when even the stars of Creation joined them; he could see them as if he were once more among them, adding his voice to the symphony of thanksgiving and joy; the endless, myriad sights, sounds, smells, of the holy lands where his home had been; and the sublime, infinite, uncreated, eternal, everlasting glory of the Almighty Father, once long distant and buried underneath millennia of pain and grief, bathing every living soul with his loving light.

It all came rushing back, like a torrent of water breaking through the most crudest of barriers, and overwhelmed his poor, earthly mind.

_"Do not weep, brother,"_ the Angel's voice came, far away._ "Do not weep—this is a night of joy, not sorrow."_

With a shock the vulpes realized he was indeed weeping—more than he ever had before. He hastily tried to wipe the tears away, but more came, breaking through his every effort to keep them back. All of his pent-up emotion, held back for years, came suddenly pouring out in an immense torrent. He turned away, ashamed of showing his tears to the Holy One—but was startled, and comforted together, when the being placed a glowing arm around him, lending him strength to persevere, and pulled him close in a comforting embrace.

"H—H—Ho—How can… can this b—b—be… be?" he stuttered, unable to get a clear breath. So much had happened to him he was simply losing all control. "H—How can I know joy…? How can my curse be broken? How can this be?!"

_"I do not know, brother, but Our Father has told me himself that thee and thy kindred are free… free from thine own punishment. All thou needst do is look, and lo! it shall be given unto thee,"_ the Angel replied close to his ear, an unfathomable emotion coloring his words.

Still James shook his head, not able to believe it. How can anything lift their greatest sin, the Exiles' collective sin—of following the Evil One, of the unimaginable act of refusing their Father's own will, of Rebellion—from their shoulders, after all the long, endless millennia?

What could lift his own sins, of enslaving a people and forcing to them live as something a little lower than even beastkind—of condemning an innocent woman to thralldom all because of his own folly—of not leaving the dangerous and dictatorial Krazoan Order when he still had the chance—of not doing even the simplest action of reforming his own kinsmen gradually instead of refusing to change even himself…

How…?

"How?" he asked, slowly, "can this be? How can I simply ask… and be…" He couldn't finish, his shame too great.

_"I'll show thee, instead, of what I mean, brother,"_ the Angel suggested. _"You shall understand better than if I tell you. I myself cannot understand how it can be."_

"You… You'll do that?"

_"Come, and see,"_ came the enigmatic reply.

The Angel slowly stood, lifting up James' unresponsive body; then, when he was able to stand without assistance, released him from the iron grip he held him in, but still kept a hand 'round the vulpes' own.

"What are you…?"

_"Keep hold of me."_

Before James could comprehend what was going on, the world suddenly transformed around him. A blaze of light/glory/radiance exploded around them, shot through with myriads upon myriads of colors of every area in the electromagnetic spectrum, shifting, changing, morphing into countless variations of every conceivable form of light. A gut-wrenching jerk was felt, followed by equilibrium loss, and suddenly James was pulled along at a speed far beyond imagination by the Angel, his mortal, frail hand enclosed within the glowing, immortal one.

A great light appeared surrounding the little home upon the mountainside, for only an instant. Then it vanished.

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	7. Scene Six—Emmanuel

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_**Mary, Did You Know?**_—**Pentatonix**—(YouTube, Spotify, iTunes, Google Play, AmazonMP3)

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The flash of light appeared, blinding in its intensity and easily lighting up the darkened countryside—but only for a moment. When it disappeared scarce a moment later the two were standing in an alien land; one of whom looked wobbly.

_"I am sorry,"_ came the Angel's apology, _"I forgot you hadn't done this since the… well."_

"I'm fine, fine," James said, shaking his head to get the spots of light still dancing about outside. His equilibrium too was a little off, and for several moments the world spun crazily, the horizon shifting up and down in a counterclockwise rotation. A hand held him steady. At last, after clutching his head and willing his eyes to stay shut, he was able to breath easily—and was soon able to open his eyes without wanting to retch. "I'll be all right… brother…" he added uncertainly, looking askance at the Angel.

The celestial being took no offense at the title. Then, belatedly, as he turned to look around him, James remembered that it was the Angel who called him that in the beginning. But he was too emotionally drained to feel ashamed, even if he wanted to.

"Where are we," he asked, his attention distracted by the landscape. It didn't occur to him that like Corneria this place too was shrouded in the night—he still thought they were in Lylat, but somewhere else, like the southern latitudes of Corneria. But then he saw what was different—an abnormally large (and single at that!) moon hung low in the sky, hiding the stars.

Unlike the Vrurkii Mountains of home this was a flatter, broader land, with a vivid green look to it, even under the light of the alien moon. Strange trees grew in orderly clusters among the fields, but not as if they were part of a plantation; rather, they looked as if they belonged, fully and completely, to the inhabitants of the little town off their left. Rocky hills rose above it, forming both a natural barrier against what undoubtedly must be severe winds and a foundation for the buildings. He turned to it curiously, squinting, for it was at a great distance, even for his supernatural sight.

It had no walls, no watchtowers, or any kind of protection against bandits. Neither were there any gates to what seemed to be the main entrance, if the road not too far to the left was any indication. The only thing that seemed walled was a small cluster of buildings far behind where they had appeared; an inn of some kind, or perhaps a keep.

A most unusual place.

_"We're two thirds from the Galactic Core, in a small single-star system of eight planets, the outer four of abnormal size,"_ came the reply. _"We are on the third planet from the sun, one moon, sustainable atmosphere without modification, habitable biosphere with countless native and diverse species of flora, fauna and bacterial varieties, and home to one sapient Race of Man. Where we are here is a small province, the least of a great and mighty empire upon the crossroads of this world, but important nonetheless, and south-east of where we need to go."_

As James took in the information the Angel also added, somewhat conspiratorial, _"This Race is one of the most beloved by Our Father, surpassing even the Holy Ones of the heavens. You wouldn't believe the time and effort he has spent with them—all leading up to this very moment!"_

The vulpes laughed. "Most beloved? Really?" That was impossible to believe. Only one?

_"Upon my honor."_

"Unbeliev—"

_"I warned you."_

"Where is this… this something you said you'd show me?" he asked, kneeling down to scoop up some soil. It was not very damp, clay-like in consistency. Even the grass he rooted up looked as though it were short-lived, its roots were thickly clustered yet very short.

_"Over there,"_ the other said, pointing at the town. James started to walk there but was restrained by the other.

"What?"

_"I forgot to tell you, there are no creatures like you except—"_ and here the Angel coughed, _"—except little canine beasts that are looked upon as… as pests. You'd cause quite a stir if you walked in looking like that." _

"I cannot shift my form," James said blandly, "that was taken from me a long time ago." He did not tremble even at the memory the words brought up, the cleansing (however temporary) had given him momentarily relief from it. "And even if I could, which one must I be?"

_"Allow me."_

The Angel did nothing perceptible but just after he spoke the vulpes felt his entire body shifting, changing shapes—he felt his bones morphing into something entirely different, for one thing. Remarkably, given at how long it normally took to transform into even a body that was known from one already used, this took no more time than it would to sneeze—nor for that matter was there any pain.

James looked down at his body after it was done, and noted immediately that nothing had changed. Or rather, nothing drastic, as he suddenly felt extremely cold. One look at his hands confirmed it—he had no fur. Also the comforting weight of his brush was missing too—even the muscles, bones and nerves that moved it involuntarily were gone. And his visual perception of the world had changed too, his muzzle having vanished…

_"You are no longer a fox, brother, but one of them now."_ the Angel announced proudly. He looked at him critically—if what crossed his flaming, all but invisible features could be called that. _"You'll pass. Unlike the Lylat this world is all they know and none of the Exiles have come here, none save you."_

"Do they have at least…?"

_"No. They do not, and have no need of it at the present moment. There are no Races of Men within a several thousand light-year radius of them. None have visited them either. As far as the Father is concerned the Lylat and one or two others are the only extraterrestrial civilizations other than these—I am confusing you, aren't I?"_

"No, you've told me enough," James answered. He had already come to the conclusion long ago that, given its current state of deterioration, the Krazoan Order would have no interest in anything beyond its few hundred systems in the Core; _and unless an alien fleet attacked_—(which would be nothing less than that pernicious, overly aggressive cybernetic nation deep in the Core; nothing the Order did could stamp them out)—_would they ever stir from their cradles of power,_ he thought sourly. "Let's get going, then, right?"

_"Indeed. You are supposed to be here for only a short time, and that'll be enough."_

"Our Father does not want me telling these… people… about other worlds?"

_"No. Simply put that it is not allowed. I know nothing else other than that. Let us go."_

They moved across the field quickly, the distance between them and the town decreasing rapidly. At last they entered what seemed to be Main Street. Here, unlike the Vrurkii village, these buildings were one-roomed (with a little area underneath for the livestock); and, although rudely built, quite sturdy against any windstorm just like its alien counterpart. Several of them appeared to be integrated into the rocky hills the town was built upon. But like all villages, including home, this one was just as lively. While the lights were crude and the windows were covered by sheets or rushes instead of glass there was plenty of life behind them, children, animals and their elders mingling with one another.

The Angel and his offworld companion fell in behind a small company of the locals, beturbaned and berobed folk (undoubtedly herdsmen of some kind), moving quickly. They all seemed to have seen something most extraordinary, for although there was no conversation, both a strong undercurrent of excitement and their extreme haste told what words did not say. Oddly they were shaped just he was, minus tails of any kind. But that was irrelevant—the Angel looked like he did, for crying out loud!

"Where are they going?" James whispered into the other's ear. "Are they moving toward where we are headed?" Indeed, the Angel showed no indication to change his path from the one these were moving along.

_"Yes. Earlier, a company of my kinsfolk appeared to them with the same message as I to you. Unlike I, however, their message was concerned, not with revoking of the Exile, but of the announcing of a King—their King."_

"A king?"

The Angel, having long since changed his form to something much less intimidating that a pillar of flame, grinned at him. _"Did you think Our Father had eyes only for you? I told you earlier that this Race was one of the beloved Races of Men—or as you of Lylat say, they are the apple of the Father's eye. This particular people's history here is too complex to explain in one year, much less in a single night, but I assure you, they have as much need of help as do the Exiles."_ He paused, then added._ "And they are very important… much more than they realize."_

"I can understand that," James muttered. "I am not that much of a fool to believe that only we were afflicted…" The other merely patted him on the back, lending him the comfort of another being. "What is that you said of a "king"?" he pressed further. "I'm sure you could tell me that."

For once the celestial creature did not have an answer. He thought for a long while, not speaking as they traversed the village. Then, at last, he ventured forth an answer—cautiously:_ "I do not know, brother. I cannot explain. Only Our Father can explain now. But here we are."_

James' eyes blinked.

Barely a moment had passed, it seemed, before the herdsmen reached their destination, rendering all further conversation useless. It was one of the small homes of the village, built exactly like the other houses. Dun-colored bricks formed its exterior, while behind it loomed the chalky-looking, maroon rock-wall of an extremely large hill. The one distinguishing feature of it was that, while the rest of the houses' lights were centered mostly on the upper-room, the lower partition was especially ablaze with light. Something was happening.

One of the men reached out and rapped upon the door—low but insistent. It opened as the two angels came behind them.

"Jeremiah?" the woman asked, "what're you doing here at this hour?" For the first time James was able to get a clear look at what this Race looked like; his Angelic companion's face was not as visible in the half-light.

A pair of brown eyes looked out from an extremely smooth face (no muzzle whatsoever) despite its weathered and lined appearance, and framed by graying hair; rather like the primates of the Lylat, save this person here was far more refined and noble-looking than any ape he'd ever seen. The nose was well-wrought, triangular in appearance instead of the flattened ones of apes, and mouth full and sensuous like a vixen's. The body furthermore, although aged, still retained its hourglass shape despite years of childbearing and work in the surrounding fields—in fact a certain kind of dignity was lent to her by it, even without the grace of a tail.

But that was not what unnerved him; far from it. It was the overall impression she gave him.

It was as if these beings were extra-refined, extremely polished gold in anthropoidic form while their Lylatian cousins were rough-hewn rocks with traces of the ore within. It was shocking, that this one Race here possessed more beauty, especially in this one middle-aged woman, than every Race of the Lylat. Utterly incredible.

The Angel nudged him, breaking him out of his dumbfounded stare, as the man the woman addressed as Jeremiah spoke. "We're here to see him, Naomi. May we come in?" he asked, inclining his head to look down at her.

Naomi looked puzzled, then understood. "Come in," she said, standing aside, "but hurry—it's cold and the babe has just been wrapped."

The men moved through the door, the angels following behind them, James lingering a little longer to gaze more fully at her. If this is what the females of the Race looked like, even as old as she was, then the menfolk (even the youngsters!) must be outstanding. Then he looked away and followed them. Unknown to him the Angel was smothering a grin at his idiotic looking face. Behind them came the click of the door-latch.

The room was smaller than his Nerf-barn, but looked especially homely in the half-light cast by several little crude lamps set upon a table. Thickly placed straw covered the floor, depressions delineating where animals would lay; a small pathway to a staircase leading to the upper room was also clearly defined. The four stone walls kept everything in place, and kept out the cold too.

Some animals—two equine-looking beasts and a Nerf-like creature (double-horned), looking half-asleep—watched the newcomers with interest as they lay comfortably down, basking in the warmth; two children hung around the stairs, watching as their elders clustered into the room. Despite the cramped conditions the herdsmen moved eagerly towards the rear. It took a moment for James to figure out what the others were looking at, the Angel included—and again, for the second time since he got here, his mouth dropped open.

If the middle-aged Naomi had taken his breath away, the younger woman, lying on her side exhausted with a young child to her breast, looked divine; the man kneeling over her, tendering stroking the baby, was equally handsome, but differently in his own way. James' suspicions, even as he continued to blink like a drunken idiot, had been confirmed—they were indeed outstanding: The sight drove from his mind everything connected to home. It was no wonder the Father lavished attention on them, he thought admiringly, to gift them with such beauty as this. Whatever they had done to partake in the Exile, at least they had been allowed to keep, for the most part, what he had granted them.

Something tugged at his arm, and he looked down. The Angel was gesturing him to get down frantically, his eyes aglow. Then, with a rush of understanding, James followed his command—the herdsmen had all knelt. Before he could wonder who they did so before—it couldn't be for the couple, even though he would have gladly prostrated himself before them—the Angel whispered into his ear.

_"The man-child,"_ he hissed. _"The Son!"_ There was no question as to which man-child he meant.

Wait—what? A little_ boy?!_ James blinked again, in utter confusion this time. The Father had sent him this revelation… and it was only a boy? _the_ boy cradled within the woman's arms? How could the salvation of the Exiles be contained in a mere little boy of no great stature? And why here, in this small world so far away from anywhere of the Exiles—save his own, of which he shuddered at—and in such a way that it would be… millennia before they gotten anywhere near the technological level of the Lylat…?

It didn't make any sense.

"How?" he asked, astonished, to the Angel, "is this _boy_ the… the key to our prison?" It was all he could say—the utter staggering improbability of all this prevented him from saying anything.

_"I know only a little, brother,"_ the other answered in a hushed voice, _"and this is all I can say. For reasons I do not understand Our Father has chosen this place, this people, to be his answer to the Fall. The child you see there is the Son, of the Father's heart and love begotten, incarnated into your world for thy release from darkness and oblivion. Anything more I cannot say, being only speculation."_

His voice rolled over James, incomprehensible in meaning. Release? Answer to the Fall? How could that be? _Why did he have to be so dumbfounded, too?!_

One by one the herdsmen, simple farmers all of them, started getting up, murmuring blessings on the young couple and the family of this house. They obviously understood better than James, he who was a Krazoa—they! mere men, mortals! Inconceivable!

The young couple paid no attention to his unheard ramblings, but answered the men in kind. The husband got up as Naomi hustled over, and oversaw the herdsmen departing—they'd obviously seen enough. The younger woman, dark-haired and blue-eyed, wrapped her little boy more tightly in his bonds, Naomi assisting her. It was clear she had just been through childbirth, for despite the beauty upon her features they were drawn and sweaty. She looked up, smiling, at the older woman. Naomi returned her smile.

Unconsciously, before he could stop, James moved forward to the women. The husband was still speaking to the last of the visitors, to Jeremiah; both seemed awed by what happened, the husband by a group of men visiting his young wife, and the herdsman by what he'd seen. The Angel remained where he was, kneeling, head bowed to the ground in reverence.

But James wanted to see more.

"Um…" he coughed, kneeling down before her "m—may I see him—madam?" His hands opened and closed unconsciously. He nearly lost his breath when the younger looked at him, smiling.

"Of course, sir," she said, "please, here." She lifted the now sleeping child up to him.

"Yo—You want me to… to _hold_ him?" he asked, eyes popping. What had he done to deserve _this_ honor?!

"Yes," she replied, her smile like that of the sun. "Here, take him." She held out her newborn son. Naomi hovered around her, making sure she did not over-strain herself.

James slowly reached out, his hands tingling. He took the sleeping boy from her hands, carefully, slowly, as if the boy were carefully spun glass, something exquisitely fragile—then brought him close to his own chest. The baby's face was relaxed in sleep, the smile of a newborn upon his lips, eyes closed. The faintest wisp of hair lay against his head, like a feather.

For a long moment, almost infinite in its poignancy, the Exile held the hope of all Mankind within his arms—and the hope of his kindred.

As James looked into the man-child's cherubic features, he suddenly understood everything. It all came to him in a blinding flash, with no more explanation than this. Finally… he understood, sharing in the understanding of the others. It made this all the more wondrous. The genesis of the Fall had been the root of all sin which had come after. The antithesis of that root was all encapsulated within this little boy. At last the Angel's words made sense. He leaned forward, marveling that the alien physiology allowed for such close contact, and kissed him softly upon the forehead.

Then he returned the little body to his mother.

"Thank you," James whispered, gratitude in his voice, as he slowly climbed back onto his feet. The mother nodded distractedly as she bent down to cradle the baby. Then James was forgotten; she never heard his final words as he departed. "You are the most blessed of all women."

The Angel was waiting for him outside when he closed the door. They looked at one another for a long while, the one in wonderment, the other knowingly. Then they turned and left the village.

_"Come, it is time to return home…"_ the Angel said softly, taking his brother's hand. Then, with a burst of glory, everything transformed into light and power—and the alien world faded around them with a roar of sound like a rushing waterfall—then it too disappeared into nothing, replaced only by light.

Before it too faded away, he heard the Angel speak one last time._ "You have been given a foretaste of what all shall see, James. On the morrow shall the sign appear to guide you all home. Fare you well, my brother…"_

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_**Of the Father's Heart Begotten**_—**Choir of King's College**—(YouTube, Spotify, iTunes, Google Play, AmazonMP3)

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	8. Scene Seven—Reunification

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The door to his home was before him, weathered, grey and grained wood replacing his interdimensional passage in an instant.

James simply stared at it, amazed at what he'd seen. Not in æons had one of the Shining Ones of the Father—their unfallen brothers—come to visit any of the Exiles; yet the memory of them had never faded from their collective minds. Even if their old home had disappeared these never had. But that, while a wonder unto itself, was nothing compared to what he, James, had just been through—a journey through the realm of space to a world whose star was one of the many billions in the Sparkling Path high above him.

But was it all a dream?

He turned instinctively to look for a large patch of bare ground. The area outside the barn and his house remained the same, deep white snow filling the ground as far as the eye could see. Whatever agency had done this had not been idle when they left. James sighed, disappointed. It was too good to be true. To hopeful to ever be true. A spot of light caught his eye. Turning to look behind him, he beheld a distant white glare breaking over the mountains—it was the crack of dawn, the star Lylat rising to break the night. How long had he stayed outside?

Disappointment descending upon his shoulders like a falling anvil he turned back to the door, fumbled around for his key, and unlocked it. He had nothing to do for the better part of the newborn day. Time aplenty to get sleep. He paused, though, his hand upon the door; an ear was cocked, probing backwards.

Did he just hear music?

He brushed it off when nothing more came, and went inside. For a moment he thought he heard something distant, ethereal-like in its harmony, echoing through the mountain peaks. But then the wind had come, cold and unforgiving, and he wanted nothing more than to be inside, warming up by the fire.

His home was unremarkable on the inside, just as it was outside. A single enormous room of indeterminate length and width was all that was of the ground floor, save for a smaller room off to his left and at the rear. That would be his storage room, a giant closet really. A wide staircase attached to the wall directly on his right led to the smaller, upper floor, divided into three rooms—his bedroom, the largest, and two unused others.

Wall plaques and woven decorations, beads dangling from them, covered the gold-brown walls, adding a somewhat comfortable aspect to his home. Out of loneliness he'd gone to the village one day and bought everything that was broken, frayed or unwanted from the nearest shopkeeper; and then spent the next few weeks fixing them up. It was a welcome distraction from the tedious solitude.

Also taking up a large portion of his time had been repairing that shabby fireplace to his left, replacing missing stones and mortaring cracks. It was bare now, though a full firewood rack was off to the side. Only other furniture was a large (also old and broken when he first bought it) armchair sitting before the fire, and a massive table of finely split logs with the bark still left on them underneath and polished on top dominating the room's center, with a single bench on the fireplace side. Two closets containing various gear stood by the walls, and a few small chests underneath the stairs.

James stood for a long moment, basking in the sudden warmth the house still had—just before he noticed three odd things. One was that the fireplace held a roaring, crackling fire. The second was a mouthwatering smell pervading the building everywhere. The final one interposed itself upon him with a shriek almost as he stepped through the door.

_"I thought I'd just missed you, James!"_

He rocked backwards, arms windmilling to keep from falling over, as a large, tangled mass of fur (extremely thick fur too, he noticed) engulfed his vision, a pair of arms crushing his ribcage with sheer unadulterated joy and pressing his body against a more lithe, slender one.

_"Vixy?!"_ he gasped out as his senses caught up with him, inhaling her warm, almost forgotten scent deep within his self. How—how—?

"Yes, it's me, James," Vixy said breathily, her head half-hidden under his jaw, still squeezing him as if she was afraid to let him go. "I thought you were late getting home, so I set about fixing up the fire for when you came."

"Bu—how, why?"

"The guards were kind enough to point me here," she answered, looking up into his eyes, her own green ones shining with emotion, "when I asked them if anyone had come to live here in the past ten winters. It was a stretch, I know, but one grizzled old man remembered when you came to live here, and told me so." She leaned forward to peck him on the cheek. "And he was right."

It was all too much to take in—the explanation too mundane for what seemed so miraculous; Vixy—here?! Impossible! _I must be dreaming,_ he thought dazedly as she held onto him. _First the angel, now this… what next? My discovering the banishment was also a dream?_

She took no notice of his befuddlement, instead steering him to the armchair, a well-worn, well-patched piece of furniture whose faded crimson colors seemed to glow in the warm firelight, shadows from the grate playing across its surface. Pushing him into it Vixy produced a thick blanket from somewhere and tucked it all around him, remarking that "You're as cold as an icicle, James, where've you been?"

"Elsewhere…" he mumbled. _Is this a dream, or is it real?_ he kept wondering. Too many stupefying things in one night to take in.

"Well you're foolish to stay outside in this weather—why, if you hadn't stumbled in looking like a half-frozen sleepwalker, I would've gone out there myself to look for you!" she exclaimed, now bustling off to check on a pot over the roaring fire full of something which bubbled nicely and smelled glorious to his numb nose. "Imagine that—the sheltered woman looking for her overprotective man, isn't that funny?" she marked, bending over and lifting up the pot-cover.

She sniffed, then nodded. "Like our last time together, only reversed." she added, giving it a stir.

At last his senses caught up with him. This could _not_ be a dream if she had just said that! "V—Vixy," he began, struggling up from where he lay, "_how_ are you here?! I thought you—you—"

"I escaped from them," she replied, still stirring. A bitter, hardened note had entered her voice. "Three winters ago I finally managed to get away from them, and have been looking for you ever since. You wouldn't believe how men can overlook you so easily after spending ages of fucking you senseless. They just assume you're there. Funny isn't it?"

"But—But, I saw you—!"

"So you did. Those Krazoa like to break their victims, don't they? Unfortunately for them I was too strong." she answered matter-of-factly. Again that hard note.

He struggled to form the words which refused to come out of his mouth, while at the same time fighting the blanket keeping him secure in the chair. At last he managed to free himself from his confines and stood. "Vixy," he said, levelly.

She looked back at him. "Yes?" she asked, somehow looking sweet and stern at the same time.

"I… I'm sorry for what I did to you," he began, keeping his tone steady, but despite his efforts it trembled. "I shouldn't have done that—I… I should've stayed put, should've listened to you—"

"Oh, so that's what's on your mind now, hmm?" she asked, straightening up. She then smiled, making him lose his breath again, and went over to kiss him. "Well, James," she said, standing upon her toes to reach his lips, "I've forgiven you."

"… But why?" he asked when they moved apart.

Vixy sighed and rested her head against his chest. "James," she said, feeling his heartbeat within her bones. "I understand that all you did was to try and protect me. I know that. And I've never forgotten it. Even when you're acting like an ass around me, you did so only for my good. How can I hate a lovable fool like you?" she asked, glancing shyly up at him, her expression exactly the same as that one night so long ago. "And now they can no longer hurt us—the Father has seen to that," she added.

"Even… Even the rape they put you through?" he asked hesitantly, ashamed. He couldn't bring himself to touch her even though Vixy kept her arms around him. "Ten winters of that and still—?"

"No, no, not ten," she said, laughing. "Only seven. I looked for you for three."

James smiled slightly. "I am glad you survived." he whispered.

"So am I." she answered. "It wasn't bad, really. Once you get used to it it passes by as though it were a dream. It was easy to forget, since they were all ugly monsters with no redeeming qualities and my old master had done this sort of thing to me for so long it's lost its sway." She laughed again. "I'm fine. You needn't worry about it."

He took hold of her and pressed her close. "I will never let you go through that ever again," he breathed softly. "Never again."

"I know," she whispered back. "I know."

The fire crackled and spat behind them, mirroring the love which flowed between the two reunited souls. Its heat bathed them, melting all stiffness from James' bones and warming Vixy's spicy scent which emanated from her unusually thick and long fur. Even their shadows behind them were happy, flickering in the firelight and bound together as with an ethereal cord of joy. For a long moment they remained that way, embracing one another as though this were the first meeting.

At last they separated, the one smiling at the other. At last it no longer seemed a dream to James—his wife was here, in the flesh, not as memory but as physical reality. At last his torn soul was completely healed. At last.

"Oh, the soup is nearly done!" Vixy cried, turning away to the pot and breaking the spell.

"Soup?" he asked, feeling a sudden (and rather insistent) gnawing in his stomach. "What it is?"

"Beans, carrots, corn, tomato, peas, other vegetables and various assorted meats I found lying about," came her airy reply. "The meat may be a little tough, but it'll be fine just the same." Then she added, "Of course, with you nearly frozen from your jaunt outside, you wouldn't care."

"I wouldn't, yes," he agreed.

She ladled it out into two bowls—"Found them lying about," she said—and handed one to him. It was warm and he could feel it seeping into him the longer he held onto it. "To the table," she ordered, holding out her spoon like a charger, and went. James smiled and followed after her. They climbed into their seats—the long wooden benches were perfect for this sort of thing—and dug in ravenously. It was different than all the other meals which James had eaten, but this one was made special because of her—it tasted more heady and filling than ever before, possibly because he'd hadn't eaten in a long time; but he knew the real reason.

And, the most of all, he kept missing his mouth—not when she was beside him.

"What? Why aren't you eating?"

He jumped at her question. "Sorry," he mumbled, grinning underneath that he must look like a fool, and continued eating.

"What were you doing outside so late?" she asked sometime later after they finished. "All your animals were locked up, and the door to the house was wide open. Shaggy was nearly out of his mind when I came, banging his head against the door like a lunatic."

"Shaggy?"

She grinned. "One of those Nerfs of yours. He looks so… well, _shaggy!_" Then she added, "He kept wanting to get out of the barn, nearly knocked me over when I opened the door, but he subsided when I reassured him you're going to be all right. Now, what happened?" Her tone grew stern. "Was there some problem that you needed to take care of? Did a Nerf get lost?"

James put down his empty bowl and considered the question. It was reasonable that one of his herd might've gotten lost, but he knew that they'd all been put up before his… well, remarkable journey. He couldn't understand how his door figured into this—but that was irrelevant anyway. "Do you remember… remember me telling you about—" he began, then hesitated. Should he tell her what he'd seen? At it was he could hardly believe it _had_ happened; really, an Angel appearing to him, taking him to an alien world and telling him that the impossible had happened—that the Exile was over?

"Yes, go on, James," she replied carefully, watching his face closely. "Do you mean to say those old stories you told me about? All about the Krazoa before they came to the Lylat and all of that?"

He exhaled. "Yes." She did remember. At least it wouldn't be that much of a shock to her—as it was for him, anyway.

"Then what did happen to you?"

Slowly he told her about the coming of the celestial being, being rescued from near-death, his reliving of the memories of his Sentencing and her rape, the awesome journey across the stars to an alien world, and the seeing of what the Angel had called "the Son, of the Father's heart and love begotten". He tried to make it so that she, a mortal, could understand the deep mysteries of his kind. Unfortunately all that he said of the Exile and its revoking was opaque to her, and so gave up after three tries. No mortal could understand, not yet anyway.

He had hesitated in telling her of his appraisal of the beautiful aliens, more than anything, but when he did she took no offense whatsoever. In fact she'd smiled and murmured, "Poor James, so deprived of womanly comfort he thinks aliens are heavenly." It was only a tease, and he relaxed at her lighthearted acceptance.

When he had finished she leaned upon the table, and looked at him intently, strange thoughts behind her eyes. At last she answered. "That must explain why you look different," she said.

Instinctively James' hand jumped up to his face—and instantaneously relaxed when he met fur, not bare flesh, and his own muzzle. Vixy laughed at him.

"Silly boy, I didn't mean that—though I wonder…" she trailed off, appraising how his "other" form might look like, or feel like. Then she shook her head and laughed. "No, you'd be too ticklish and cold. And anyway, that is not what I meant."

When she didn't go on, but continued to stare at him, he coughed. "Um, then what is different about me?" he asked, slowly.

"The guard told me you had… marks… on your face," she answered, her face searching all over his. "Made you look like some sort of witch. But I can't see them. I've only just now noticed." When he did not reply, she went on. "When you told me that… that "brother" of yours… touched you, I think he… removed—James!" she cried out, surprised, "what on—?"

He had jumped up from his seat, bounded over the table in one leap, and ran for the stairs. Ducking his head to avoid getting kayoed by the slanted wooden-frame, James fell onto his knees, nearly tore open one of the chests stored underneath there, and began rummaging through it. Various assorted gear started flying out as he changed into a flurry of whirling arms.

Vixy clucked in annoyance as she watched him scatter his things everywhere._ Humph,_ she thought, _typical him. It'll take me forever to clean that up._ She got up and went over more decorously than he had, noting that if she didn't stop him he'd tear up every storage compartment in this house—and they'd never get to sleep.

She knelt down beside him, keeping clear of his flailing arms, and touched his shoulder. "Was it something I said?" she asked as he froze. When he shook his head, and started going through the chest again, she said, "Then what are you doing?"

His only answer was a grunt, followed by a cry of annoyance. He reared up from his absurd position and slumped down. "Where is it? where is it?" he grumbled, heaving. "It's gotta be here somewhere…"

"Looking for this?" Vixy asked shyly, holding out a small hand-held mirror. When he looked at her in amazement she only shrugged. "I heard you, and saw it, in here," she explained, tapping her head; then gave him the mirror. Disregarding that she'd "heard" him (which was silly), he grabbed at it and looked. It was as he suspected—the Kurse was no longer upon his features; moreover, there was nothing left behind to indicate that it had ever been on him. James ran his hand over his face, trying to feel for the slightest scarring, for even the most faint disfigurement in the flesh. Nothing presented itself. It was completely gone.

_F—Father… th—thank you… thank you!_ was his first thought. The second was that he was free to start anew. With Vixy, too. No more did he have to be an exile—he could become full member of the village now! Feeling a rush of heady elation, he turned to her, a broad smile breaking across his face, and embraced her again; the mirror clattered onto the floor, forgotten. "Thank you," he whispered, both to her and to another. "Thank you!"

"James—!" Vixy's muffled cry came to him: "Let me go! You—You're crushing me!"

Laughing heartily he released her. "Sorry about that!" he exclaimed, though in truth he was not. "It won't happen again!" Without another word he stood and swept her up in his arms; and then, bending them both over, kissed her deeply. This time there was no complaint from her as she eagerly returned it.

"You foolish joker," she murmured, once the kiss was broken, "like you'll ever do such a thing." Her eyes mirrored his.

"Shall we get some sleep?" James asked, feeling—and failing to prevent—an enormous yawn escaping. Her deep purr, so like a cat's yet different altogether in her own way, gave him the answer he desired.

"Yes, let's" she murmured. "Why not…" here her tone grew suggestive, "a family?"

James grinned and kissed her again. "I thought you'd never ask," he answered. He hoisted Vixy up, her arms 'round his back, and moved away from underneath the stairwell. Ignoring the fire, which was burning down to embers, the simmering soup-pot (which would be stone-cold in the morning), the bowls where they lay forgotten upon the table, and the great mess he had made, they went upstairs.

Passing through the hall to his room.

And shutting the door behind them.

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	9. Scene Eight—Love Divine

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He slowly set her down, Vixy's laughter filling his ears as he teased her with kisses. Her hands found their way under his shirt and began sliding up. James felt them grabbing, testing, his hardened muscles, exploring its alien features after so many long years of separation—the contrast between her soft, almost downy hands was astonishing. He wrapped his own 'round her, and pressed her body—and incidentally loosening her skirt—against his.

Her throaty laugh told him she knew exactly what was going on.

Vixy pulled her arms out, one at a time, to let the sleeves fall through before going back to her caressing. The sudden coldness of the room made her body-and-brush fur fluff out, but that hardly mattered with such a willing source of warmth nearby. She suddenly felt him ducking underneath her grasp—but then he straightened up, shirtless, leaving her holding the garment.

"Oh you silly, silly boy," she purred, dropping it. She stood with one of her legs slightly bent, shoulders thrown back confidently, her hands clasped just above her thickly-furred brush now fluffed out to the fullest, looked exquisite. Her hourglass-shaped form was so _alluring_ in the semi-darkness, her breasts seeming to glow like a full moon, with the brush curving like an "S" behind as a backdrop, that he could already feel blood coursing through him.

"Only for you," he answered, looking for all the world like an idiot as he savored the sight of her in nothing but a plain linen shift, her long legs bared. Then he moved forward, eager to take hold of her.

Vixy stopped him with a finger, smiling, and undid the chemise with the other hand—then stepped into his arms. She rested her head against his exposed chest, wondering at how smooth it felt, so soft and delicate—and so _rich_ (she inhaled him in deeply) too… Her brush curled 'round to enclose him—his own met it, and they curled about one another.

James tucked an arm under her legs, lifted her up again, and nearly fell over—but, fortuitously, they landed upon the bed, she incidentally being underneath him. As she smiled up at him, looking like a small rose in the darkness, he dropped his trousers, freeing the last of his body. Then he climbed onto the bed.

She pulled back the covers, and slid underneath them just before he managed to grasp at her. "Oh no, oh no…" she purred, looking out from underneath long lashes, "You'll have to do better than that…"

James merely grinned, accepting her challenge. He reached out, took hold of the covers, and followed after when she showed no sign of "resisting". Her "purrs" met him. "As you wish…" he said, leaning forward to kiss her.

She accepted it, and wriggled closer to him. Underneath the covers it was nice and warm, easing every uncomfortable sensation away. With their legs and brushes tangling and intertwining with one another under there it grew even more heated; and then rose even higher when he finally managed to get atop her.

Vixy opened in response, pulling back her knees to her chest, slightly spread apart. She could feel him pressing against her—and she closed her long, supple legs around his back, resting them under his brush as it snaked around her own once more. She closed her eyes and prepared to lose herself to—

She involuntarily gasped when James entered, her body contracting around him tightly. She could feel how stiff and thick he was, sliding all the way inside as a well-oiled tool would inside its sheath. Her muscles squeezed him, releasing and gripping alternatively. Her mouth parted and she moaned, and started rhythmically moving her body against his, to get him to move.

As she lay there, reveling in his presence within her, she felt something odd. Despite her eager encouragement James remained motionless, as still as stone atop her, neither pressing nor withdrawing.

Vixy opened her eyes in puzzlement. Before she could figure out what was wrong she felt an immense wave of love and assurance from James through their long dormant telepathic bond. It was not due to hesitation that he'd halted prematurely, but to allow her body to respond in kind. Vixy felt a rush of both gratitude and embarrassment that he'd remembered, after all this time, but his muzzle probed insistently against hers, driving all guilt away.

She opened her mouth and pressed it against his, feeling his own close about her, tongues snaking in and around one another. Underneath her body she felt his arms shift until it was as if he _held_ rather than laid upon her body.

Then, as the tongue-battle went on, she felt him begin, ever so slightly, to move—but, rather than a thrusting motion, instead he _pressed_ against her, stimulating _her_ rather than himself. Vixy could feel moisture around her eyes—_he remembers_, she thought gratefully. _Oh how thoughtful of him…_

James increased his pace, but did not change his rhythm; pressing rather than thrusting. Her hands grasped at his back, involuntarily scratching him. Gradually, a great something began to form deep inside her—as if a great flood of many waters were about to burst forth—in response. His own hands began exploring her body, squeezing her breasts, pinching her in places where the skin was exposed, of which there were a great many.

She was now moaning, softly at first but it grew in intensity, lifting higher and higher until it, however muted, echoed around the bedroom from underneath the writhing covers. The moans changed into gasps as he began forcing himself more deeply into her—warm liquids from her pelvic region easing his passage as he picked up the pace.

As Vixy's body shifted into a rhythm to match his, she suddenly felt that deep something inside of her again—and starting where they joined together, this _vibration_ began to extend throughout her, spreading down her legs and moving up her torso. Her breaths came in short gasps as an incredible warmth followed the tingly sensations, filling her as a crackling fire's heat would after spending a long day out in the deep cold, where the wind blew with freezing intensity.

Then, just as she thought she could no longer take it, an incredible feeling seemed to fill her very being. Her body seemed to literally _melt_ into her lover's body, dissolving into him as an orgasm shook her as trees would shake in a mighty wind—her entire body twitched and jumped underneath his as it took her, losing all sense of identity as an indescribable joy filled her very soul, every single emotion of hers finding full refuge within the great, tempestuous storm of passion now released by their exultant lovemaking.

He too shuddered, and groaned, releasing all his pent-up energies into her as she racked with orgasm. His body pounded against hers, all sounds muffled underneath the bed-sheets and her cries, as he gave himself over to his most base instincts. He longed to take and possess her, fill her so completely with himself that there was no more room—and she gave herself unto him fully, surrendering completely, satisfying his intense desire.

At last… it was over, full, and done.

Both lovers lay in an euphoric hazy, basking in one another's love and adoration of the other, a release made all the more poignant by their long separation, their sweaty bodies intertwined with one another, fur sticking together. A great, spicy scent filled the covers, their musk commingling with one another, somehow more rich and delightful than the finest of wines.

James moved his head over hers, seeing how quickly she had fallen asleep in the aftermath. Her body trembled with the residual excitement coursing still throughout her. A satisfied smile spread across his features, that he had made her so happy and so self-confident once more—furthermore he too was feeling delightfully secure with himself again, something he had not felt in forever.

He leaned forward, kissed Vixy upon her lips (she smiled unconsciously), then laid his own head down upon her, resting atop her heaving bosom.

_I thank you, Father, for all that you have done for me,_ he thought contentedly, as he drifted off into sleep. _I can never repay you. You have given me everything back, my wife, my own soulmate and my dignity, and I thank you most deeply from the innermost depths of my heart. Thank you…_

He closed his eyes and slept. Beneath him Vixy breathed contentedly, finally safe at last. Together, both lovers resumed the journey they had both left long ago.

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Overhead, far above the McCloud home, as the Sparkling Path receded into the daylight, Lylat rose high into the sky. The violet-blue colors of the sky replaced the golden-red of the Hand. The planets disappeared just as silently—the morning star, Katina, was the last to fade. Only the Red Star, a distant dot of light unless at perihelion, remained. The Vrurkii village started to awake in response. Children tumbled out of beds, parents meeting them at a full breakfast table; shops, a smithy and a lumber-mill began to open, with sleepy apprentices and masters beginning the long day's work; and the guards within their watchtowers breathing a sigh of relief, that the night had passed.

Day had arrived.

But amidst the brightness of the morning, there arose another to challenge the sun. Another star had appeared, its light as great as the Lylat itself—or at least, enough not to be drowned out as did its smaller, dimmer cousin—equal unto but with due reverence to the one before it.

The countless faeries of the region celebrated its arrival, spinning and reveling throughout the air, dancing ecstatically through the snow and ice, leaving tiny footprints that would fade later. It was almost sexual in its intensity, but they had no need of such a thing, being elemental beings. But there was something much greater underlining it all, for they had felt something fall from their shoulders, like an invisible chain releasing them or a great burden that had been imperceptible until now when it vanished. Even the normally placid, stolid Elemental Kings and Queens of Nature felt that something immense had changed, and looked up into the day.

Something life changing had occurred.

For this was a light that was different from all the others, for unlike a planet it remained stationary in the sky, never deviating no matter how many times Corneria rotated upon her axis or circled 'round her sun. Unlike a comet it never grew brighter or dimmer but remained constant. And unlike a star, any star… this one's light had reached everywhere from its genesis. It was not bound by Time nor Space—its light spread throughout the entire universe, from the Outer Darkness to the heavens.

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

* * *

_**Joy to the World**_—**Mormon Tabernacle Choir**—(YouTube, Amazon, iTunes, Deseret Book, LDS Store)

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	10. Afterword

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The star system I follow for _Great Desire_ is the one by Norsehound—full title is _Lylat system by Norsehound_. Changes to the system map include: Both Zoness and Aquas (second and fifth orbits respectively) are moons of Corneria (fourth orbit), while Tyana is just beyond Fortuna (seventh and sixth orbits respectively). This will be the map I use for when I delve into Lylat proper—that is, after I'm finished with TCE. There may be other planets added, as my mind changes every other moment, so be warned when the time comes.

Two other maps which I believe are of interest. One of them, by UndyingNephalim, is of prime importance for every Star Fox fan and is a must see. (_Full title is Lylat System Theory -revised-_). The other, also found on the same artist's page, is a modified map following the same trend as the first one by making Solar a star and in an orbit (not binary) around Lylat. (Full title is _The Lylat System_). It is the system map used for the fanmade _Star Fox: Event Horizon_ game; feel free to check out their website, they have some really great stuff (character bios, planets, vehicles, etcetera). The twist they put in the canon is enough to make _my _head spin! can you imagine?

This was originally going to be for Christmas Eve but the phenomena which I'm going to call "procrastination, lack of motivation and circumstance" repeatedly kept getting in the way. It took a full two/three months to complete, with two betas assuring my paranoia that it did not need to be re-edited after every re-reading.

I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it—it truly was enjoyable, delving into an area of Lylat's past which nobody (correct me if I'm wrong) has ever gone before. (Actually, it is _way _back in Lylat's history. Imagine that!) Forgive me for taking extreme liberties with the canon (and with "other" things, too), by the way. Also, the James and Vixy here are not those of canon Star Fox. The former could conceivably be one, but not the other.

Please, let me know of your thoughts, opinions, critiques, anything which would help me improve—or simply tell me what you thought about this story, this novella. Now… time to work on other stuff. _The Cerinian Earth_ and _Kurse of the Erinyes_ most importantly.

Cheerio!


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